


One With Our Heart

by prettygirllostt



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I don't know how to classify this, M/M, Mycroft and Sherlock growing up together, True Love, holmescest....kind of, kidlock somewhat, relationship changing, somewhat incest?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:35:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettygirllostt/pseuds/prettygirllostt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starting with Sherlock's birth, the story follows Sherlock and Mycroft through their relationship. A story of trust and love and growing up, it's a bit Holmescest.</p><p>please read the tags....if you don't like incest fics, don't read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The name of this fic comes from a poem by Oscar Wilde.
> 
> Disclaimer: only the plot belongs to me. Characters and some quotes come from BBC's Sherlock. I do not own any of it.

When Sherlock was born Mycroft didn’t fully understand the idea of a sibling. He was 7 and the thought that he would no longer be the only child made him somewhat angry with the irrational anger of a child who was spoiled rotten. He tried everything to talk his parents out of having another baby and refused to talk to his mother when her belly got too big.

When he first saw Sherlock, it all changed.

            Sherlock was a small baby with a very slight fuzz of hair dotting his head. When he first opened his eyes, Violet Holmes gasped in shock at the bluish green that seemed to pull her in. He was beautiful and she felt her love for him swell. Mycroft entered the room with his normal clipped gate, his father at his back. They looked out of place and she smiled at her eldest son, cradling her newest child in her arms.

            “This is your brother, Mycroft. His name is Sherlock,” Violet said warmly.

            Mycroft, who had fought against a sibling with every piece of rational thought he had (and much more irrational thought) looked into the bright eyes of his brother and found himself lost. When Sherlock reached for him and curled tiny fingers around Mycroft’s thumb, he felt his heart jump into his throat.

            “Say hello,” Violet spoke softly.

            “Hello,” Mycroft whispered to his brother.

            Sherlock yawned and clenched his small fist around Mycroft’s finger. Mycroft looked at his brother and then at his mother with a tremulous smile.

            “Caring is our advantage, Mycroft. Always remember that,” Violet said, her own blue eyes catching Mycroft’s. When his father’s hand gripped his shoulder he knew that though things would change, it would be for the better.  Right there with his family, he promised himself he would always take care of his little brother.

 

            Their father died when Sherlock was 4. He wasn’t old enough to understand. It was a cold night and he was found hiding under the couch in their father’s study wrapped in his favorite blanket. When Violet knelt down to coax him out he simply closed his eyes and rocked back and forth so his head hit the top of the couch, causing it to shudder. Violet knew only Mycroft would be able to coax Sherlock out without a fight. She stood with a sad frown and went in search of her eldest son. She found Mycroft in his room, sniffling and her gaze softened.

            “Your brother won’t come out from under the couch,” she said. She crossed her arms so her black blouse shimmered in the lamp light.

            “I don’t blame him,” Mycroft replied darkly.

            “Mycroft,” she sighed. It was the kind of long sigh that was a mother’s sign for being displeased. Mycroft looked at her, his chin on his knees.

            “Please. He listens to you. He can’t stay down there all night,” Violet uncrossed her arms and peered down at her son. She was struck by his youth. Sherlock was the youngest and the messiest. He cried easily and threw tantrums when he didn’t get his way. The only times she’d seen him calm for longer than a few minutes was when he was with his brother. She knew Sherlock idolized Mycroft. It bordered on hero worship and Mycroft played along with it with great patience. Looking at her eldest son, she remembered that he too was a child and in his own state of mourning. She was about to retract her question when he began to get up.

            “Mycroft,” she said softly, “you don’t need to. I can get him if I have to.”

            “No mummy, I’ll do it,” Mycroft answered. He’d already slid his feet into his slippers and he smiled up at her with exhaustion in his eyes.

            Children weren’t supposed to look like that. There was so much sadness in his face that she knelt and pulled him close. He stiffened against her. Her eldest son was not one for affection. The only person she’d ever seen him touch voluntarily was his brother. He let her hold him but didn’t cling to her or cry like she half expected. He simply waited for it to be over. Sherlock wasn’t like that yet, but she saw him growing more aloof every day. His mind was like his brother’s and his father’s, always racing ahead of everyone else.  She was terrified for her children. When she released him he nodded, his eyes still filled with tears that threatened to brim over but didn’t’ quite make it. He walked out of the room unsteadily but with purpose, never turning back to his mother. She blew out a breath and collapsed on his bed. Rubbing her eyes, she thanked whatever entity it might be that she had two sons. Maybe, if she was lucky, they would all survive this.

            Violet Holmes was a smart woman and she held no illusions. If her sons were to grow from this and thrive, they needed each other. There was no one else in the world like them and without their father they would have to learn from each other. She leaned back on Mycroft’s bed and inhaled his still child-like scent in the sheets. Lulled to sleep by the comfort of her own home and the knowledge that her boys would be all right without her, she curled into herself and dreamed of her husband.

 

            Mycroft found Sherlock were his mother said he would. He sat down with a plunk and crossed his legs. Sherlock didn’t speak. Mycroft didn’t either. He simply waited until a small hand crept out from under the couch. Mycroft took it in his own.

            “Where’s Daddy?” Sherlock asked in a hushed voice.

            It was the 10th time he’d asked that Mycroft had counted. Every time, their mother seemed to have a less adequate answer and Mycroft had felt his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He’d feared he’d have to be the one to answer.

            “Where do you think?” he questioned kindly.

            “The man in the funny outfit told me he went to heaven,” Sherlock said almost defensively. It was nearly impossible for Sherlock, even at four, to admit he didn’t know.

            Mycroft nodded. He didn’t want to break any illusions Sherlock might want to have about the afterlife. Mycroft himself was only a young boy but he already felt a crushing doubt in a special place after death. Sherlock peeked out from under the couch but didn’t come all the way out.

            “What’s heaven, My?” he asked.

            Mycroft tightened his hold on Sherlock’s hand. “I don’t know,” he answered truthfully.

            “He said Daddy was watching over us. Doesn’t dead mean gone? Like that time we saw the cat that got run over? It was just gone. Is Daddy like that?” Sherlock stared up at Mycroft and for a moment it struck Mycroft how ridiculous Sherlock looked, his arm splayed out to hold Mycroft’s hand and his head tilted at an angle so he could see his brother. He shook his head.

            “I don’t know, Sherl. I don’t,” he answered miserably. He wanted to give his brother all of the answers. He wanted little Sherlock to be able to sleep soundly knowing the truth. He knew how Sherlock was, they were alike. They needed the answers or it would drive them insane. But in this, he didn’t have the answers. He was only 11 years old.

            “Mummy said it’s okay to cry. Am I supposed to?” Sherlock asked, his abrupt change of subject something Mycroft was used to. In Sherlock’s mind the two were tied together in some intricate way.

            “You don’t have to do anything that doesn’t feel right,” Mycroft replied.

            Sherlock inched out from under the couch a little more; his mop of dark curls tumbling out and along the carpet.

            “Mummy said Daddy wasn’t ashamed of tears,” Sherlock said, the word ashamed said carefully as if he was afraid he’d spoken it wrong.

            Mycroft could feel his own tears welling up again. He tugged on Sherlock’s hand until Sherlock locked eyes with him.

            “Daddy was never ashamed of anything we did. If you want to cry, you can. If you don’t need to, that’s alright too. No one can tell you how to feel, Sherl. And if they do, they aren’t right,” Mycroft spoke quietly and with intensity. He was only a boy, but already he understood some things about the world.

            Sherlock climbed out from under the couch slowly. He stared at his brother with owlish eyes. Mycroft opened his free arm and it took only a moment for Sherlock to scramble into his lap. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

            “I want Daddy,” Sherlock said into Mycroft’s shirt. His nose pressed the buttons of the shirt into Mycroft’s chest and he winced slightly, tightening his hold on his little brother.

            “I know. But we still have each other. And Mummy. We’re Holmes’s and Holmes’s survive,” Mycroft said his voice stronger than he felt.

            Sherlock curled closer and spoke into Mycroft’s chest.

            “I’d miss you if you were gone, My.”

            Mycroft understood the undertone of the statement. He clutched Sherlock to him and swallowed hard. He was only a child. He didn’t know what to do with the level of devotion being shown to him. When Sherlock shifted in his lap he nodded.

            “I won’t go anywhere, Sherlock,” he said gravely.

            “Promise?” Sherlock stared up at him with the wide and trusting eyes of a child. In that moment, Mycroft felt like he was 100 years old. Sherlock loved his mother and he’d loved his father but there was no one he loved like he loved Mycroft and Mycroft knew it. Swallowing the ball that seemed lodged in his throat, he nodded.

            “Say it,” Sherlock pressured.

            “I promise,” Mycroft whispered.

            Sherlock beamed and let his fingers loosen their grip on Mycroft’s sleeve.

            “Good,” Sherlock said sleepily.

            With the promise, Sherlock seemed to melt and Mycroft marveled at the level of trust his brother had in him. The gangly four year old dozed off into sleep while his brother held him. Soon, Mycroft leaned back against the couch and let himself relax. When Mycroft was there, Sherlock had nothing to fear and indeed the two boys were found in the morning by the butler, hands entwined lying on the floor of the study, deep in sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is 8 and seeing a specialist for his "problems". Mycroft tries to take care of him.

When Sherlock was 8, Mycroft had his first real date. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen counter while the cook made him eggs and he looked blurrily up at Mycroft who was checking his hair in the reflection of the toaster.

            “You look fine, My,” he said, rolling his eyes.

            Mycroft looked down at Sherlock. He was still in his pajamas and his long, thin arms were stretched out across the counter. He looked ridiculous but Mycroft smiled fondly.

            “It isn’t until tonight anyway, I don’t know why you’re worrying so much,” Sherlock rolled his head on his arm and gave Mycroft a toothy smile. He had gaps in his mouth from losing teeth and he’d shown Mycroft only the night before how he could wiggle the front one so it nearly fell out.

            “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mycroft replied loftily.

            Sherlock sounded smug when he said, “Yes you do. Candice or Martha, whichever one it is, they both stop by too often to tell which. You’re taking her out tonight. You’re worried you’re going to look like an idiot. I can tell you that you always look like an idiot if that would make you feel better.”

            Mycroft lightly smacked his brother on the back of his head, sliding onto the seat beside him.

            “You’re a git,” he said.

            “Mummy doesn’t like when you use that word,” Sherlock said automatically.

            Mycroft leaned in so he was speaking into Sherlock’s ear. “Then we won’t tell her, right?”

            Sherlock nodded happily. He loved secrets.

            “Mycroft Holmes, don’t start teaching your brother bad habits,” the cook snapped at him but it was without malice.

            “I have perfect habits. Sherlock does not learn his bad habits from me,” Mycroft replied, sitting up straight on the kitchen stool.

            “While that is certainly not true, I’m sure you believe it,” Violet Holmes said as she swept into the room.

            Sherlock smiled. “Mummy! My tooth is wiggling even more! My told me I should be done losing teeth before most of the boys in my class since I’m so far ahead!  He even let me look at the pictures in his dentist book! Look!” Sherlock opened his mouth wide and wiggled his tooth with his pointer finger.

            The cook slid his eggs across the table as Violet kissed him on the top of his head.

            “That’s wonderful dear, now eat your breakfast. I have to be off. Don’t torture Stanley while I’m gone,” she said.

            Only Mycroft saw Sherlock’s smile dim as he pushed his eggs around on his plate. Violet hadn’t been around much in the years after their father’s death. She’d gone from a hovering presence to a ghost in the house. Mycroft had found Sherlock more and more in his care and less and less inclined to listen to their mother when she asked them to do things. Instead of trying to rebuild her relationship with her youngest son, she looked at Mycroft with pleading eyes, reinforcing what Sherlock believed: that Mycroft was the person he needed to listen to and their mother was simply the person who kept him in the books he so dearly loved to read.

            “I don’t want to! They’re too dry!” Sherlock whined even though Violet had already swept from the room, leaving behind the scent of her perfume and nothing else.

            Mycroft leaned over him and cut the dry edges from the omelet so the soft insides were revealed.

            “There. Now eat. You’re already skinny. Mummy will skin me if you don’t put on some weight,” he said.

            Sherlock poked him in the stomach. “You’re heavy enough for us both.”

            It wasn’t meant to be rude and Mycroft knew it. He also knew that he wasn’t heavy but that to Sherlock, who was waspishly thin as was their mother, anyone who had the slightest touch of fat on them was fat in his mind. He rubbed Sherlock’s head so his thick curls stuck with static to Mycroft’s fingers.

            Sherlock muttered in displeasure but began to eat.

            “Mummy will be home before 6 tonight, won’t she?” Mycroft asked. Sherlock looked up at the slight strain in his brother’s voice. Only he would notice it, of course and the cook only looked at Mycroft and shrugged.

            “I’m not sure. She didn’t say.”

            Mycroft sighed and slouched into his seat, digging his fingers into Sherlock’s eggs and eating a pepper with his hands.

            “And you say you don’t have bad habits,” Sherlock said trying to make Mycroft smile.

            When Mycroft only turned with a slight waver of his lips Sherlock stoped eating and pushed the plate to Mycroft. He put his chin on Mycroft’s arm so his brother had to look down at him.

            “I’ll be good today. Even if Mummy isn’t home. Stanley can stay with me if you need him to,” he grinned.

            Mycroft couldn’t help but smile back even though it was tinged with sadness.  “You’re always good, Sherl. Don’t worry.”

            “No I’m not,” Sherlock said around a mouthful of eggs. The cook firmly nodded at that but Mycroft settled himself into his seat and said firmly,

            “Yes you are. Mummy only takes you to see that specialist because she doesn’t understand you.”

            “She says I need to learn to be like you,” Sherlock breezed. It didn’t seem to bother him that the only thing their mother every really said to him was that he should be more like his brother.

            “She says I’m too ostentatious,” Sherlock pronounced the word carefully but with zeal.

            Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh. “That you are, but it’s part of your charm. Mummy doesn’t need to understand you.” _She just needs to love you_ , he added to himself silently.

            Sherlock was undeterred. “I will be better. For you, My,” he said.

            Mycroft once again felt overwhelmed by Sherlock’s belief and love. He patted his brother’s head once more and stood. He had many things to do to make sure the house was running well and to keep up with his studies. Though he wished he could, he couldn’t spend all of his time with his young brother. Sherlock was a delight in a world where everything was mind numbly boring. He shook his head as he left the kitchen and allowed his face to drop.

 Sherlock watched him go with a tiny frown. He only wanted Mycroft to be happy. He shoveled in his eggs telling the cook in no uncertain terms that he would never eat them that dry again before hopping down from his seat to sit in his father’s study and flip through the books he hid under the couch and to make a plan to make sure his brother was never unhappy again.

 

            It wasn’t always easy. Sherlock was brilliant and sometimes his ever racing mind caused him to snap. He would throw things and scream and beg for something to distract himself. He screamed at Mycroft for trying to make him do things he didn’t want to do and would speak roughly, spewing out deductions of Mycroft’s life.  He stayed up late and didn’t sleep and in his worst moments told Mycroft he hated him. In one particular incident, Sherlock chucked a large soap bar at Mycroft for forcing him to bathe after studying mold along the side of the boat house on a particularly muddy day. Mycroft had a bruise for over a week and Violet had pretended to flutter over Mycroft until it became obvious that Mycroft wasn’t harmed and Sherlock was sorry.

            Mycroft never took these tantrums seriously but sometimes he needed to leave. He locked himself in his room to avoid the echoes of Sherlock’s shouts and would walk out into the woods on the estate in the hopes of getting away from his brother. In the way of two people who loved each other to a fault, they always came back to one another. As Mycroft told Sherlock once, at the end of the day they were brothers and even at the worst of times, caring was their advantage.

 

Though Sherlock did spend the day trying to be the perfect angel he promised, when Mycroft returned home from his date brimming with boredom and disappointment, he heard Sherlock shouting. His heart leapt in his chest and he walked briskly toward the drawing room.

            “I don’t want to go!” Sherlock’s voice broke on the words.

            Mycroft made sure his sleeves were straight before standing in the doorway of the room.

            “You have to,” Violet sounded furious.

            “He always always always tells me I’m fine then writes such horrible things that make you cry,” Sherlock protested.

            Mycroft waited by the door.

            “Sherlock, you need help,” Violet begged.

            Mycroft winced. It was the wrong thing to say. He wanted to run into the room and tell his mother that it wasn’t  true. He wanted to hug Sherlock close so he didn’t have to hear those words. Instead he stood in the doorway and watched.

            Sherlock picked up a decorative plate and threw it at his mother.  It missed by a few feet but the sentiment was obvious. “I do not! I do not! I do not! I’m fine!” he shouted, his voice verging on panic.

            Violet had gone pale. “Sherlock, love, this is for your own good,” she said quietly.

            “No! No it isn’t! My says I’m fine just how I am!” Sherlock was close to tears. Mycroft felt himself twitch toward his brother in response but still he didn’t enter the room.

            “Your brother is not the final word on everything,” Violet snapped.

            Sherlock looked as if she’d hit him. To him, Mycroft knew everything and is everything. He was only a child and he still couldn’t reconcile a world where Mycroft wasn’t always right.

            “Just…go to bed. You’re going and that’s final.”

            Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but then caught sight of Mycroft. He shut his mouth when Mycroft nodded slightly.

            “Fine,” he ground out, stomping off in a rather graceful snit.

            One thing that could always be said for Sherlock, he was graceful even in his gangly state.

            Violet turned to watch him go and saw Mycroft in the doorway. Once Sherlock was safely out the door and could be heard stomping up the stairs, Violet crumpled into her chair.

            “Oh, Mycroft. Do come in.”

            He moved into the room hesitantly.

            “How was the date, dear? Lilly?” Violet asked though it was obvious she didn’t care.

            “Martha,” he said coldly.

            “Right,” she said absently.

            He waited and the conversation lulled. Finally Violet lifted her head.

            “Talk to your brother, will you? He needs to go and see the specialist. It’s the only thing that can help him. You understand. You’re the best of both of us but Sherlock is so like your father. Sometimes I fear…” her voice trailed off and she looked at Mycroft as if really seeing him.

            “You’re both so young. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

            Mycroft felt so angry he could feel it radiating up through his chest. He wanted to love his mother like he was supposed to. He wanted to want to help her. Instead all he felt was disgusting pity. She hadn’t tried with them. She’d left them to their own devices. Mycroft had been all right but only because he’d forced himself to grow up. Sherlock was like their father but it seemed only Mycroft saw why that wasn’t a bad thing. He opened his mouth and closed it again, planning out his speech carefully.

            “I will talk to Sherlock but…” he stuttered to a stop when her head shot up to stare at him.

            “But what?” Violet’s eyes bore into his.

            “But Sherlock is like father. He’s sensitive. There’s nothing wrong with him. The specialist just makes him feel worse,” Mycroft finished, trying not to look as unnerved as he felt.

            Violet groaned. “Stanley!” she cried, “Bring me a drink.”

            Mycroft shifted his weight. Violet waited for the butler before turning her light eyes on her son.

            “You will talk to him, Mycroft. Make him understand that he needs this,” she said.

            Mycroft could read the underlying speech. _Make yourself the bad guy. I need this. I can’t discipline your brother. He’s your responsibility, Mycroft._

            He nodded curtly. Stanley handed the glass to Violet and she clinked the ice, blinking up at Mycroft. She’d once been so strong but with her husband gone she’d lost her footing. Mycroft felt pity for her well inside of him.

            “I’ll talk to him, Mummy,” he said.

            “Good boy,” she murmured.

            As he left the room he muttered to himself, “Aren’t I always?”

 

            He found Sherlock in his room curled up with Mycroft’s teddy bear, the last vestige of his childhood.

            “My, is there something wrong with me?” Sherlock asked.

            He had his knees pulled up in front of his chest and the teddy bear clutched in his hands. He looked so small and Mycroft smiled tiredly.

            “No, Sherlock. There is nothing wrong with you. Mummy’s just tired,” Mycroft sighed.

            Sherlock stared at Mycroft with ever changing eyes. Mycroft sighed once more. He began to undress and Sherlock said,

            “I don’t like the specialist.”

            Mycroft hated when Sherlock spoke with that tone of voice. It was so soft as if he didn’t want to admit he had feelings. Father had been like that. Gruff in his affection for his sons. Unable to voice it until the very end. He slipped into his pajamas before speaking to Sherlock.

            “I know.”

            He slid into bed beside Sherlock.

            “I don’t want to go,” Sherlock said more strongly.

            “I know,” Mycroft repeated as Sherlock curled into his side. It was an automatic response to being close and Mycroft lifted his arm to allow Sherlock to burrow in farther. He yawned.

            “Don’t make me go,” he said sleepily.

            Mycroft thought about the specialist. The man who wrote pages on Sherlock and sent them home to Violet Holmes with a smug smile and a huge price tag. He thought about Sherlock, simply a child with the mind of a thousand men and his need to learn and to see, only to be told it was wrong at every turn. He thought about himself and his own specialist that he’d been forced to see until he’d been deemed stable and how much he

he’d had to grow up to accomplish it. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t survive the world without him. He also knew Sherlock wouldn’t thrive if people kept telling him that being anything but himself was the correct thing to do. Mummy would be very angry if he told Sherlock he didn’t need to go. It wouldn’t matter if Mummy said he needed to go, if she tried to force him, Sherlock wouldn’t unless Mycroft said so.

            He looked down at his brother who was yawning but keeping himself awake to wait for the answer.

            “No. No, you don’t need to go if you don’t want to,” Mycroft said.

            He knew what he was getting himself into with his mother but when Sherlock sighed happily and slid down into the bed, holding tight to Mycroft’s bear, he couldn’t find any remorse.

            “Good. I love you, My,” Sherlock slurred, already half asleep.

            Mycroft blinked down at his brother in surprise. He silently cursed the specialist who told Violet that her son was a sociopath. Sociopaths didn’t love, they tortured for the fun of it. Sherlock was filled with love and affection; he simply didn’t know what to do with it. Mycroft knew he was lucky to have the full force of Sherlock’s heart aimed at him.  He rolled onto his side in his bed so his back was to his brother. Anyone who could love Sherlock was special indeed Mycroft told himself as he drifted off to sleep. And anyone who was loved by Sherlock was brilliant in their own way. Mycroft found his dreams filled with hope for a bright future and when he woke in the morning, the first face he saw was that of his delighted brother, holding his newly lost tooth.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always loved the idea of young Sherlock doing the things young kids doing. Losing teeth is such a major part of childhood that I thought it needed to at least be touched on!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is 18 and planning for university. Sherlock is 11 and philosophical about it. Mummy has plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not Brit picked, if I'm off with the ages of starting university, I apologize.

When Mycroft was 18 he left for uni and the unending guilt of leaving Sherlock buried itself deep inside his ribs and began to grow even before he was fully packed. Sherlock was 11 and he would be left with their mother full time which meant that he would be left on his own whenever he was in the house.

            “Are you sure you’ll be fine?” Mycroft asked for what seemed like the 100th time. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

            He was sitting on Mycroft’s bed with his bare feet dangling over the end. He was reading a book on the history of piracy and Mycroft took in his long limbs and too long hair, thinking that Sherlock had grown a lot in the last year and would need yet another uniform soon. But it wouldn’t be his job to worry about things like that anymore. Not when he left.

            “I will be fine, My. You don’t need to keep asking. I’m not a child anymore,” Sherlock said dramatically.

            Mycroft smiled. “I’m so glad you think that.”

            “I’m not! I don’t even have a bedtime anymore,” Sherlock looked up from his book, keeping his finger on his spot.

            “You still have two baby teeth,” Mycroft replied as he folded his socks into pairs and put them in his suitcase.

            Sherlock looked furious and Mycroft laughed.

            “You know Stanley could help you pack,” he said almost murderously.

            “I don’t want help. I want to do it on my own,” Mycroft said.

            Sherlock smirked and wiggled his toes. “But do you want your shirt back?”

            Mycroft looked up and studied his brother. Sherlock was indeed wearing his shirt. It was a simple white button up that looked like Sherlock’s school uniform but was too big on him. The sleeves were rolled up and it lay around his waist so it wrinkled where he sat on it.

            “You’re getting slow,” he commented.

            Mycroft calculated where he could hit Sherlock so it wouldn’t hurt the younger boy. A moment later, he’d launched himself at his brother, wrestling him to the bed. Sherlock was ticklish, though only Mycroft knew it, and Mycroft tickled Sherlock’s sides until the little boy was rolling and squealing, trying to push Mycroft away.

            “What do you say?” Mycroft asked, laughing down at his little brother.

            Sherlock stared back with a mutinous frown. Mycroft tickled more roughly and Sherlock let out a burst of laughter.

            “Stop! Stop it, My!”

            “Do I get my shirt back?” Mycroft laughed as Sherlock’s hand pushed at his chest.

            “Yes, now get off!” Sherlock said with a breathless laugh.

            “Do you give in to a truce?” Mycroft questioned, still tickling.

            “Yes, stop it!” Sherlock’s voice had arched up into squeak territory and Mycroft rolled away and onto his back beside Sherlock with a small umph.

            “You bent the pages of my book. Stanley just brought me this,” Sherlock sulked.

            Mycroft took the book from his brother and smoothed out the pages before handing it back. Sherlock wiggled beside him. Mycroft waited. He knew Sherlock had something to say, though he wasn’t sure what it was.

            “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Sherlock asked as he regained his breath.

            “I thought I was already grown up,” Mycroft mused.

            Sherlock rolled his head to look at his brother. He stuck out his tongue before speaking.

            “You know what I mean.”

            Mycroft thought about the question for a moment before turning it onto Sherlock. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

            “I am grown up,” Sherlock sniffed.

            Mycroft nudged him. “You know that makes no sense. I am officially grown up. I’m off to Cambridge. You are still in primary school. If I’m not grown up, neither are you.”

            “Fine. We’re both grown up. I am going to be a pirate. Or a bee keeper,” Sherlock said with authority.

            Mycroft smiled at the ceiling. Sherlock would make a good bee keeper. Though he wasn’t a patient person, when he wanted to do something he put all of his mind into it. He was a formidable force.

            “Now you,” Sherlock said when it became clear Mycroft wasn’t going to speak.

            “I’m going to do what father did,” Mycroft said.

            “No,” Sherlock said shaking his head, “what do you want, not what are you going to do.”

            Mycroft stopped. Sherlock was still so young to have made the distinction. He thought. He had really never thought about what he wanted to do versus what he had to do. Mummy had made it very clear he would step into his father’s shoes when it was time to. She believed he would excel past his father’s potential and keep them all rich and happy for the rest of their days. He believed she had no clear path for Sherlock and that made him feel both relieved and scared.

            “My?” Sherlock rolled onto his side, crushing the book beneath him.

            “You’re crumpling the pages,” Mycroft said quietly.

            “My, what do you want?” Sherlock asked earnestly.

            Mycroft didn’t know why it mattered so much. He made a slight face and Sherlock subsided, understanding that Mycroft was thinking. Mycroft wanted Sherlock to be happy. That was his first thought. He loved his little brother fiercely and with pure loyalty. He’d fired the specialist years before and had told the man in no uncertain terms that his brother was not a sociopath and that if he ever tried to tell anyone that any of the Holmes’s were mentally unstable he would be sorry. Even as a young boy, people took Mycroft seriously. Other than wanting to keep his brother smiling and thriving he didn’t know what he wanted. He knew he couldn’t tell Sherlock that, his brother was not a sentimental person.

            “I don’t know, actually,” he said carefully.

            “How do you not know?” Sherlock queried.

            “I haven’t thought about it since I was probably your age,” Mycroft shrugged as best he could from his spot on the bed.  Sherlock curled around the book so they could hear the pages crinkle.

            “Mummy just gave you that. She’ll be cross if you destroy it in its first day,” Mycroft said.

            Sherlock rolled to his stomach, crushing the book with more zeal.

 “Why not?” he asked quizzically.

            Mycroft thought about the question and couldn’t find an answer. He smiled bitterly to himself. It said a lot about him and the people he knew that the only person who could stump him was his 11 year old brother.

            “I don’t know,” he said finally.

            Sherlock sat up and leaned over Mycroft. “It’s because you’re a grown up. My, do I want to grow up?”

            Mycroft stared into his brother’s eyes and saw the uncertainty. Sherlock wanted to be a pirate. He wanted to raise bees. He wanted to learn and study and suck in life. Mycroft had been like that once but not in a long time. He stared at his brother who stared right back.

            “I don’t know if I want you to,” Mycroft said truthfully.

            “Well then, I don’t want to,” Sherlock said, satisfied.

            It mystified Mycroft how much trust Sherlock put in him. He could tell Sherlock he wanted the boy to jump out of a window and he probably would. He began to speak when they heard Mummy calling for them. Sherlock let out a long sigh and sat up.

            “Sherlock?” she called again, coming down the hallway.

“I’m with Mycroft, Mummy,” Sherlock called back. His voice was clipped and cold. Mycroft couldn’t help but wince. He liked Sherlock when he was excited and happy and inquisitive. The real Sherlock. He hated watching Sherlock change for the world around him. He didn’t try to be polite, in fact, he bordered on rude, but his voice dropped and he was cool and collected. He became almost a robot, the opposite of the boy he really was.He was too young for it but there was nothing Mycroft could do but allow Sherlock to be himself around his older brother.

            “What are you two doing?” her voice arched in disbelief.

            Mycroft had grown used to hiding their closeness from their mother simply because he didn’t like the looks she gave them when she saw them happy together. It looked something like heartbreak and anger, as if she could blame her sons for leaning on one another when she did nothing to make them trust in her.

            “I am helping Mycroft pack for Cambridge,” Sherlock said, lifting his nose up into the air.

            Mycroft hid his smile but when Sherlock snuck a look at him, he knew Sherlock saw it. His eyes brightened in response.

            “Lovely. Well, you need to finish your school work and Ms. Winters is here. Up you go. I need to speak with your brother,” she said without commitment.

            Sherlock stood and Mycroft’s shirt fell to below his knees. He carefully smoothed out the pages of the book but he left it on the bed as he padded from the room. An obvious sign of displeasure in their mother. Mycroft mentally shook his head and turned to concentrate on his mother.

            “Yes, Mummy?” he said, standing and brushing out the wrinkles in his pants.

            “You are not to come back to this house for the holidays. Nor for any weekends. You are to leave your brother alone,” her voice trembled with anger.

            Mycroft stared at her, stupefied. “What?” he said dumbly.

            “You have poisoned Sherlock enough. You are now a grown man. It’s time. You will leave him alone,” she snapped at him.

            “Poisoned him? How?” Mycroft asked stupidly. His mind couldn’t catch up to what she was saying. How could he leave Sherlock alone? Sherlock who was so special and who only showed his true self to Mycroft.

            “Against me, you insipid boy! He doesn’t listen! He’s insolent and he adores you. I thought he would grow out of it. We all did. But he just keeps following you around like a bloody puppy dog. It’s time for me to take control of this house once more. You will go to Cambridge. You will take your studies seriously and you will move on and away from your brother. That is it,” she hissed.

            “I’ve poisoned him?” Mycroft knew he shouldn’t goad his mother. He knew that though his anger was justified he shouldn’t take it out on her. He ignored his rational thought.

            “I’ve poisoned him against you? You had your chance to be a parent. I had to grow up for him, for you. Don’t make me leave Sherlock,” he couldn’t keep the plea from his voice and that was enough to give his mother an edge. She narrowed her eyes at him and smiled a serpent smile.

            “You two are too co-dependent. It’s time to stand on your own. You are 7 years his senior. You have the rest of this week to say goodbye but when you leave I expect you to stay gone,” she said.

            She swept out of the room before Mycroft could think of anything to say. No one noticed Sherlock pressed to the wall outside of the room.

 

            Terror had seized Sherlock. He couldn’t move. When Mummy had asked him to leave the room, he’d hidden in the hall. Whenever she wanted to talk to Mycroft alone it was about him and he didn’t want to miss it. What she’d said had frozen Sherlock to the core. He knew Mycroft had to leave. He was selfish but not selfish enough to pull his brother from his future. But to not see Mycroft for four years or more, well that was simply unacceptable. Mycroft was his best friend and his brother. When his mother stalked from the room he launched himself in.

            Mycroft looked up in time to see the flurry of his brother come launching at him. Sherlock slammed into his middle, wrapping long arms around Mycroft’s stomach and squeezing tight.

            “Sherl?” Mycroft gasped, looking down.

            “Don’t listen to Mummy! Don’t go away forever!” Sherlock nearly sobbed.

            Adrenaline rushed through his body and he gripped tighter. Mycroft dropped the shirt he had been folding and hugged Sherlock tight.

            “I have to go away, Sherl. I have to do what Mummy tells me to do but…” he trailed off so Sherlock would look up at him.

            Sherlock tipped his head, resting his chin on Mycroft’s stomach and stared with wild eyes up at his brother.

            “But I won’t go away forever. I promised, didn’t I?” Mycroft didn’t know if Sherlock remembered that conversation. If he had been old enough at the time to remember the promise but Sherlock gave him a tremulous smile.

            “Yes, My. You promised,” he loosened his hold.

            Mycroft looked around the room before letting go of Sherlock and pulling him to sit on the floor. Sherlock crossed his legs and watched his brother.

            “It isn’t going to be easy. Mummy doesn’t want me to be near you,” Mycroft admitted, “and I’ll be at uni so I won’t have as much time as I’d like for you.”

            “I’m not an idiot, My. I know I’m not your first priority,” Sherlock scoffed, “I just don’t want Mummy to win.”

            Mycroft smiled. Sherlock was an idiot if he didn’t think he was Mycroft’s first priority. “Be nice to her, Sherl. You don’t want to make this worse than it has to be. And you’ll be going to school soon. Eton awaits.”

            “School is dumb. I could teach the classes,” Sherlock said.

            “That’s well and good but you still need to go,” Mycroft said, going back to folding his shirt.

            “I could hide in your bags and go with you,” Sherlock said hopefully.

            “Nice try. I need that shirt back, you know,” Mycroft said absently as he pressed the shirt into a suitcase.

            “No. Truce is off. If you’re going away and Mummy is going to keep you away, I get to keep the shirt,” Sherlock grinned as he got up.

            “Go see your tutor before Mummy gets mad. If you’re good I’ll take you to the park tomorrow,” Mycroft said.

            “I am always good,” Sherlock breezed.

            “Right,” Mycroft said, “just don’t make her cry and I’ll let you gather stone samples.”

            Only Mycroft would see the light in Sherlock’s eyes at the promise as he nodded somewhat curtly. Pushing the sleeves of his brother’s shirt up his arms, he scampered down the hall.

            “So young,” Mycroft muttered to himself.

 

            The next day found Sherlock in his oldest pair of trousers wading into the pond to get stone samples and Mycroft shaking his head while calling for Sherlock to be careful. A young mother pushing a stroller stopped beside Mycroft and sighed contentedly. Mycroft looked at her pointedly but she didn’t take the hint.

            “Aren’t they so sweet at that age? Is he your brother?” she asked.

            “Yes,” Mycroft clipped quickly.

            “Well he’s a very handsome boy,” she smiled. Her baby fussed but she didn’t react more than a slight head tilt.

            Sherlock turned as if noticing that Mycroft’s attention was split.

            “My!” he called, “My, I don’t have this one yet, do I?”  He held up a small stone, waving his hand so Mycroft couldn’t focus on it.

            He stood on the bank with mud and water soaking into his trousers and Mycroft sighed. “You’ll have to bring it to me, I’m not coming in there,” he called back.

            “Why not?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head slightly. The woman laughed.

            “Oh dear, he’s a willful one, isn’t he? My brother was like that. Headstrong.”

            Mycroft ignored her. “Just come here!” he shouted louder than was necessary. He should have known Sherlock would take it as a challenge.

            Sherlock set his feet in the mud and with a spark in his eyes that only Mycroft would be able to distinguish, he shook his head. “No.”

            Mycroft lifted his eyebrows to a slight arch. Sherlock settled into the mud even more.

            “Oh dear,” the woman murmured, “quite a handful, isn’t he?”

            That sealed the deal. Mycroft, who had been standing on the other side of a slight wall, swung his legs over the wall and strode toward his brother with purpose. Sherlock looked at him with veiled delight but simply handed over the stone.

            Mycroft turned it in his hand. “I don’t believe you have one like this but we’ll have to look in the book, won’t we?” he said.

            Sherlock’s lip quivered. “Mummy won’t let you,” he said.

            Mycroft shifted his attention to his brother, ignoring the young woman behind them who was still watching.

            “I’ll make her,” Mycroft said as warmly as he could.

            “Why are people so _nosy?_ So dull!” Sherlock said loud enough that his voice would travel.

            Out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman stiffen and turn to check her child. Mycroft barely hid his smile.

            “Because they are exceedingly dull. People are stupid, as a rule,” Mycroft replied quietly.

            “But not us,” Sherlock said with a smile. Mycroft was blocking the street; no one would see Sherlock smile. Something about that made him sad as well as happy. His brother didn’t want to share his happiness with anyone but him, but what would the world do with a boy who didn’t want to share his heart?

            “My?” Sherlock asked with worry lacing his voice. Of course he saw the melancholy in Mycroft’s face.

            “I’m fine. Let’s get going. We don’t want Mummy worrying, now do we?” Mycroft steered Sherlock to the wall. Sherlock snorted while the woman beamed at Mycroft, clearly thinking he was a good big brother.

            “I’d love for Mummy to worry. Can’t we stay out longer?” Sherlock asked hopefully.

            Mycroft could hardly believe the woman was still standing there when he turned to Sherlock. She smiled at him encouragingly.

            “Sadly, no,” he said, ignoring her gaze.

            “But My,” Sherlock let a whine seep into his voice.

            “Sherlock, we are Holmes’s and what do Holmes’s do?” Mycroft asked sternly.

            “We do as we’re told. Unless it’s a stupid suggestion,” Sherlock sulked.

            The woman let out a startled laugh and Mycroft turned to her. “Can I help you with something else?” he asked archly.

His icy gaze caught her and she stumbled over herself while she mumbled, “No, no. Nothing. I’ll just be going then.”

            “Right,” Mycroft snapped. She hurried along without another word, turning back to look at them over her shoulder before disappearing around the bend.

            “This is a stupid suggestion,” Sherlock said somewhat aggressively.

            “Yes, I know but the amendment to that motto is, we do as we’re told especially when Mummy tells us,” Mycroft said miserably. He wished he could take Sherlock with him to school. He didn’t want to leave Sherlock in their cold house with their even colder mother but he had no choice. He was only 18 and he couldn’t fight a custody battle with a fully competent adult.  His lips twitched and he had no doubt Sherlock caught the almost frown. He answered with a brief squeeze of Mycroft’s hand.

            “We have to do what we have to do and when you’re done with uni I fully expect you to take care of me well into old age,” he said with the authority of a young boy who knew nothing would ever change.

 

            Three days later Mycroft was loaded into a town car while Sherlock watched, clutched to Mummy’s side. He’d promised Mycroft he wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t scream and wouldn’t beg and he didn’t but Mycroft saw the fear and misery in Sherlock’s eyes. He saw Sherlock’s heart break as he got into the car and he had to force himself not to look back as the car pulled away from the estate. He blamed his mother for all of the mess and even when he got into his dorm and smiled evenly at his roommate, he thought of Sherlock, alone in the mausoleum of a house with the gargoyle they called Mummy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the kudos and comments! They help me get through it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is in uni and he finds a way to meet with Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not brit-picked. We're reaching the point where it's going to get incesty, so if you want to take your leave, do it now. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and leaving such lovely notes!

In the first year of uni Mycroft bought a small flat. It was easy enough. He’d come into his trust when he’d turned 18 and using a modest amount he could afford a small flat where he could smuggle Sherlock in to spend time with him. It felt like a dirty trick and he bought the flat with almost zero intention to use it until Sherlock somehow called the school, begging for his brother.

            “Mr. Holmes, there seems to be a commotion in the student’s office concerning you. Please, would you?” the professor spoke crisply across the room and Mycroft rose graciously and left at a clipped pace, only picking up his pace when he was away from the classroom.

            He ran over all the scenarios that could possibly have happened to have him called to the student’s office but he stopped dead when he walked in and saw the look on the office assistants face. Only Sherlock could put that look on someone’s face. He held out his hand without a word. The assistant’s arm shook when she handed over the phone but Mycroft ignored it.

            “Sherlock,” he said, turning for some semblance of privacy.

            “It has been 4 months. Where are you?” his brother didn’t waste a breath in greeting him. He didn’t question how Mycroft knew it was him. There was no warmth, only accusatory ice in his voice. Mycroft felt a small coil of fear before he beat it down.

            “I am exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he snapped back.

            “And where am I?” Sherlock asked calmly.

            “You are not one for idiot questions,” Mycroft replied.

            “This isn’t idiotic. I am simply making a point. You promised me. When a Holmes makes a promise, they uphold it to their grave. That’s what Mummy says,” Sherlock said.

            “Since when do you listen to Mummy?” Mycroft asked incredulously.

            “Since she is the only adult contact I have with an authoritative voice. Either get me out of here and fix that, or let it be,” Sherlock said dangerously.

            Mycroft didn’t like the tone. He didn’t like the way Sherlock was speaking to him. Sherlock didn’t have to be an adult yet. Mycroft had grown up so Sherlock could take his time. He didn’t know what to say. He had a free weekend coming in two weeks, but how could he get Sherlock out of the house without Mummy knowing?

            “Mummy also says you don’t love me anymore,” Sherlock said when Mycroft was silent for a full minute.

            That sentence punched Mycroft in the gut. He didn’t know what he could say. He could hear the vulnerability in Sherlock though he was sure no one else ever would.

            “That is wholly untrue and you know it. Mummy lies,” Mycroft said.

            He could feel the eyes of the entire office on him. He knew the whole school wondered about the Holmes family. Old money, cold, brilliant and eccentric. He could hear them behind his back every day. He only wished that never happened for Sherlock, though he grudgingly admitted to himself he couldn’t control everyone.

            “Yes, she does. But so do you. So do I. I told Mummy the bruise on my eye was from a fall. Really, Victor the arse punched me,” Sherlock said, sounding smug.

            Mycroft felt sick. If he had been home he would have known it was a hit, not a fall. Sherlock couldn’t lie to him.

            “2 weeks, Sherl. Two weeks and I’ll get you out of there,” Mycroft said quickly.

            “That is acceptable, I suppose,” Sherlock said carefully.

            Anyone else would have snapped at Sherlock by that point but Mycroft only allowed himself a small smile and said, “I will figure it out.” He silently told Sherlock not to worry.

            Sherlock scoffed at the unspoken words. “I never worry, My. I know you’ll figure it out.”

            With those parting words of confidence, Sherlock hung up and Mycroft stared at the phone before handing it back to the office assistant.

            “I am very sorry for my brother,” he told the nervous woman.

            “That’s….alright. He’s very abrasive, isn’t he?” she said looking at her desk.

            “He can be quite a handful,” Mycroft said graciously. “May I go now?” he asked the office head who nodded curtly.

            “He loves you very much, doesn’t he?” the office assistant said hesitantly as he turned to go. He turned back to her and looked at her name plate. Amy Holland. He gave her a small smirk that would speak volumes to his brother but would only seem like mild acceptance to the woman in front of him.

            “I suppose he does,” he said.

            She beamed at Mycroft. He was young and dashing and when he smiled, even just a small smile, he could bring the world to its knees. When he turned to go, she blushed furiously and went back to taking calls, her pen nearly breaking through the paper.

 

            Two weeks later Mycroft had figured out how to get Sherlock without Mummy noticed. It was lucky for him that Stanley would be watching Sherlock the afternoon he planned to have him picked up and it was pure good fortune that she would be spending the weekend away again but he had a plan in place for any situation. He had called Stanley two days before to check up on Sherlock and the butler had offered to help with the extraction of Sherlock, telling Mycroft that Violet Holmes was trying too hard to make the boy love her while still making him feel as if he wasn’t good enough. Stanley, who had his own children, was disgusted by the development and had professed his wish that Mycroft could come home. Mycroft could do nothing about that, but he could send a car that Stanley would load Sherlock into and he could give Sherlock and Stanley a story as to why he wouldn’t be home. And that is exactly what he did.

            When Sherlock got out of the car and looked up at his brother the first thing he said was, “We should organize this to go with the school weekend trips.”

            Mycroft already knew that and he huffed but before he could be upset, Sherlock launched himself at his brother and hugged him. An old couple hobbled by and the woman smiled with a warm, “What a nice family.”

            Mycroft couldn’t help but agree in that moment. Without Mummy, he and Sherlock made a wonderful family.

            Sherlock moved back and squinted at the flat. “So this is our place?” he asked.

            Mycroft started at the wording but nodded. “Yes. I paid for it and Mummy won’t know you’re here.”

            Sherlock nodded grimly. The driver handed his bag to Mycroft who took it with a nod while Sherlock pushed open the door. 

            It was a small flat but Mycroft could tell Sherlock was happy with it. He bounced slightly on his toes before turning to Mycroft. “It will do,” he said.

            “It better. I’m not buying another simply because you want one,” Mycroft said kindly to take the sting out of the words.

            Sherlock huffed and threw himself on to the couch. “You know, I taught you manners once,” Mycroft mused at the small form on the couch.

            “Yes, and since then Mummy has told me to forget everything you ever taught me,” Sherlock replied with a smirk.

            Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh. “I taught you nearly everything!”

            “Yes, I know. Which is why she took it back when I came down to breakfast naked and told her that you taught me how to dress myself for mornings and I’d forgotten about it,” Sherlock laughed.

            Mycroft patted Sherlock’s head as he dropped Sherlock’s bag on the floor. “You’re a terror,” he said affectionately.

            Sherlock tipped his head back and grinned evilly. “Only to people who deserve it.”

            “Stanley told me there have been many calls from your school because you’re abrasive,” Mycroft said.

            “School is boring and they deserve it,” Sherlock shrugged.

            “You’re torturing Mummy,” Mycroft said but it was without heat. He couldn’t help but feel proud of Sherlock for fighting so hard.

            “She sent you away.”

            Sherlock said things like they were simple, like they were fact. In that case it was a fat but Mycroft still blinked down at his little brother. Even having been gone for 4 months, Sherlock still missed him. He was still angry over what Mummy had done to them and he was taking it out on her and everyone around him.

            “Has she realized that you’re doing this on purpose?” Mycroft asked, lowering himself onto the couch beside Sherlock.

            “Some of it. I am far too smart for her to know all of it,” Sherlock said dismissively.

            Mycroft didn’t doubt that it was the truth. Sherlock was too smart for his own good.

            “School has nothing to do with Mummy,” Sherlock said eventually.

            “I didn’t believe it did,” Mycroft said mildly. Sherlock was not an easy person to get to know and he didn’t respond to the usual social stimulus. He needed to be challenged and the average 11 year old would not be good enough for Sherlock. Mycroft doubted anyone who could be classified as “normal” would be good enough to hold his brother’s attention. From what Stanley had told him, the teachers found Sherlock insufferable and the other children found him alien. Mycroft knew that any school problems had nothing to do with their mother and all to do with the stupidity of the masses.

            “She thinks it is. She thinks I’m acting out to make her angry enough to call you. She raised her hand two nights ago. She’s been seeing someone. Her nails had skin under them. I wasn’t supposed to know. She cried when I told her. Stanley made her drink with extra vodka. I could smell it. Am I a disappointment?” Sherlock spoke quickly jumping from one fact to another.

            Though the subject worried Mycroft he couldn’t help but tell himself he missed his brother as his mind raced to keep up with the brilliant young boy. He smiled fleetingly then turned to the subject at hand.

            “Did she hit you?” Mycroft asked.

            Sherlock shook his head. “She was too surprised that I’d noticed the skin under her nails.”

            Mycroft closed his eyes. “Sherl, you can’t goad her like that. Stanley may not think it’s right but he won’t risk his job for you. I’m not there to take care of you.”

            Sherlock shifted next to him and Mycroft realized he’d forgotten to answer Sherlock’s question.

            “No. You are not a disappointment. You are brilliant. Mummy just doesn’t understand that,” Mycroft said furiously.

            He wished he could speak to their mother. He wished he could yell at her. He wished he could open her eyes to how special Sherlock truly was.

            “Okay. Good. I didn’t think so. She says I’m sneaky, too smart for my own good. She says I’m like father but it doesn’t sound nice when she says it. She doesn’t listen, My. She wants me to be a doctor or a lawyer. A lawyer!”

            “You don’t need to be anything you don’t want to be,” Mycroft said as Sherlock shifted closer to him.

            “I know that! You’ve told me that my whole life. I am not stupid, My. It is exceedingly dull to listen to her drone on, though. Last night I saw more signs of a lover. I told her all about him to get her to shut up,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

            “Sherlock, you can’t do that,” Mycroft repeated with a sigh.

            “I can do whatever I want,” Sherlock grinned.

            Mycroft shoved him. “Don’t use my own words against me, you git.”

            “Don’t leave things open to interpretation,” Sherlock snapped back without heat.

            Mycroft let out a bark of laughter. He’d missed his brother more than he’d ever missed anything. He realized with a start that he’d missed Sherlock more than he’d missed their own father. He settled back into the couch and sighed.

            “So what do you want to do on this weekend?” he asked.

            Sherlock bounced. “I have a new bee book!” he said gleefully, turning from posh, high class speech to young boy excitement in seconds.

            “No. We are not looking at bees all weekend. I have to do my studies as well. How about we balance it out. You have to learn how to share, Sherl,” Mycroft replied.

            “No I don’t. You don’t care if I share,” Sherlock shrugged.

            “Yes, but I won’t be the only person in your life forever. Not everyone is going to find your selfish brilliance delightful.”

            “You’re the only person that counts. I don’t see that changing,” Sherlock said, sliding from the couch to pull open his bag.

            Mycroft felt his breath catch again. His young brother put so much stock in him, he sometimes worried he wouldn’t live up to his brother’s expectations.

            Without turning, Sherlock said, “Relax, My. You could become the Prime Minister and I’d still like you.”

            Mycroft laughed at that. Sherlock found government to be the epitome of hypocrisy and idiocy and Mycroft was inclined to agree. He grabbed Sherlock and heaved him back onto the couch. Sherlock laughed when Mycroft slightly tickled him, clutching his new book to his chest.

            “Stop it, this is serious,” he said with a breathless giggle.

            “Oh yes,” Mycroft agreed as Sherlock opened the book, his hair falling over his face, “this is a very serious moment.”

            Sherlock nodded without looking up and turned the page, pointing at a bee and speaking in earnest. Mycroft smiled and leaned over to learn about the bees that had his brother so enthralled.

 

Nearly four years went by and the plan of getting Sherlock out of the house worked, though it dwindled as Mycroft got busier and Mummy got nosier. They still managed to see one another for weekends and they kept their closeness, even through the long waits and the impossible life Sherlock lived with Mummy.  Finally, Sherlock was off to Eton and though Mycroft couldn’t just show up at the school itself, they still had the flat.

            Sherlock met Mycroft in front of the flat in his uniform with a bag slung over his shoulder. He had become carelessly handsome in the four years Mycroft had spent at Cambridge and he felt something jump in his chest at seeing his brother. It was hard in the summer months to meet as Mummy was home more often and she clung to Sherlock like a bur in his side. He’d shaken her off with school and a well-placed lie that he would be spending the long weekend with his friend, Victor.

 Sherlock looked disinterested even as Mycroft came toward him but Mycroft saw the happiness in his brother by the way his toe tapped and he twitched his head.

            “Mycroft,” he greeted lazily.

            “Sherlock,” Mycroft nodded.

            They’d learned how to play their parts over the years. Mummy had spent four years hoping to tarnish Mycroft in Sherlock’s mind. After his initial bought of willful anger, he’d learned it was easier to simply pretend he agreed with her. Mycroft, of course, knew of the deception and played the part of the sour and stilted older brother quite well. Even when they met one another in public they acted their scenes. It wasn’t until they were sure they were completely alone that they acted as they truly wished: like best friends and brothers.

            Sherlock followed Mycroft into the flat and dropped his bag while blowing out a sigh. He fell onto the couch with his usual gusto and tipped his head back to look at Mycroft.

            “Eton is full of insufferable idiots and wankers,” Sherlock said sharply.

            “That it is,” Mycroft replied, not fully paying attention.

            “At least I’m away from Mummy. She nearly ripped my arm out of its socket when I walked away. She’s grown used to having her pet beside her,” Sherlock spat.

            Mycroft looked over as Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair with frustrations.

            “Are you alright?” he asked.

            “Yes,” Sherlock said with enough tension that Mycroft could feel it.

            “No, you aren’t. What is it?” Mycroft lifted Sherlock’s long legs and slid beneath them on the couch.

            “Mummy. As always. Horribly stifling to have to pretend with her every day,” Sherlock rubbed his forehead.

            “You’re out of there, now,” Mycroft said gently.

            When Sherlock was only a child Mycroft had lived at home. With father gone he’d had to take care of things and he’d travelled to school. Sherlock at least got to live on his school campus but when Mycroft looked at his brother all he saw was exhaustion. Mummy had been replaced by roommates and cruel, rich boys who could mock him all hours of the day.

            “Oh brother-mine, it will get better,” he said quietly.

            Sherlock flashed him a small stressed smile before putting his hand over his eyes.

            “My mind races, My. I can’t shut it down. Mummy sees. She might not observe it, but she sees. She gets this look in her eye as if she despises me. Like I did something to father, to you, to the family. I can’t help but be what I am. She’s begun pushing me to do what she likes, but I am not you. I don’t know how to be anything else,” Sherlock admitted.

            “People are mostly stupid, Sherl. I can’t tell you that it gets easier, but it does get easier to pretend. We go through this charade every time we wish to see each other. Mummy has never understood you or me for that matter. We are nothing but ourselves and that is quite alright,” Mycroft murmured.

            Sherlock shifted and Mycroft began to rub his shoulder without thought.

            “You are a chameleon. I am nothing more than a live nerve,” Sherlock contradicted.

            Mycroft shifted his weight until he could pull Sherlock up. He had stopped holding Sherlock when he was 11 but now it felt like the right motion. He pulled Sherlock tight to him and a gasp broke out of his brother’s mouth as the air was crushed from his lungs. Sherlock froze for a moment before burrowing in close with a choked sound.

            “Life doesn’t always need to be this hard,” Mycroft told him.

            Sherlock shook. “My mind…My, is there something wrong with me?” Sherlock asked, his voice raw.

            Mycroft felt irrational anger swell in his chest and he brought his legs up so his knees cradled Sherlock closer. Sherlock didn’t fight him off which gave Mycroft more fuel for his anger. Whoever had broken him down would pay, Mycroft promised himself. Anyone who ever hurt Sherlock would pay.

            “What have I told you since you were small?” Mycroft asked his mouth close to Sherlock’s ear.

            “I’ve gotten older since then. More of a prat as Mummy so generously put it,” Sherlock said, his voice muffled by Mycroft’s arm. It wasn’t the answer Mycroft wanted but it was an acknowledgment.

            “There is nothing wrong with you. You are brilliant just like father was and anyone who tells you to be something other than yourself is a bigger idiot than that Victor person who makes you go home with black eyes,” Mycroft said strongly.

            Sherlock struggled to push himself back, working his gangly limbs into a semblance of order.

            “He has not sent me home with a black eye in over a year,” Sherlock said, sounding affronted.

            “Semantics,” Mycroft said.

            Sherlock smiled and relief flooded Mycroft. He let go of Sherlock and the young man rolled to his feet. He wiped his hands down the front of his trousers and Mycroft realized the shirt wasn’t actually a part of the Eton uniform.

            “Are you wearing my shirt?” Mycroft asked incredulously.

            Sherlock smiled but there was a shyness to it. “It makes Mummy so unbelievably cross; it just has to be done.”

            Mycroft laughed and stood as Sherlock picked up his bag and moved to put it in his room. He didn’t bring up the fact that Sherlock hadn’t seen Mummy in over a month.

            “When you’re done doing that, come with me, I have something I want to show you,” Mycroft called.

            It was dark by the time Mycroft actually got to show Sherlock what he wanted but that was all right since it was easier in the dark anyway. Mycroft dragged Sherlock up to the roof of the flat where he’d pinned a blanket down. Sherlock looked at him with confusion arranging his face.

            “What is this?” Sherlock asked.

            “Sit,” Mycroft ordered.

            Sherlock sat in the way he used to when he was a child and Mycroft ordered him to do something. He blinked up at Mycroft and waited for an answer to his question.

            “Lie back,” Mycroft said as he sat down beside Sherlock.

            Sherlock did as he was told and waited until Mycroft was lying beside him.

            “Why do you spend time with me?” Sherlock asked when he’d grown impatient with the surprise, especially since he didn’t understand it.

            “You’re my brother,” Mycroft answered automatically. It was the answer he told his classmates when they asked why he spent time with a brother 7 years his junior. It didn’t cover nearly enough and even as he said it, he knew Sherlock would tear into him for it.

            “That does not mean you need to spend time with me. Time you’ve designated, not me,” Sherlock said.

            Mycroft thought it over as Sherlock waited with uncharacteristic stillness.

            “Because out of everyone on this planet, you’re the one who understands my mind,” Mycroft said finally.

            Sherlock rolled his head and grinned. “That was strangely poetic and romantic, brother.”

            “Don’t read into things,” Mycroft laughed.

            The brothers grinned at one another with mutual affection until Sherlock looked back up at the sky that was sprinkled with stars.

            “So what is this?” Sherlock asked.

            Mycroft gestured to the sky. “This is what I wanted to be,” he said.

            “You wanted to be the sky?” Sherlock asked.

            “You are being purposely obtuse,” Mycroft retorted.

            “Yes, but only because you enjoy it,” Sherlock snapped back. Mycroft couldn’t argue that.

            “I wanted to go to the moon. I wanted to study stars. Father gave me a book on astronomy when I was 8 and we learned about it together,” Mycroft said softly.

            “Like you giving me the bee book,” Sherlock said just as softly.

            “Just like that. But when father died Mummy made it clear that I was going to step into his shoes and I had to grow up for you. And for her, I realized later,” Mycroft spoke to the stars he’d so dearly loved instead of to his brother.

            “You wanted to be an astronaut?” Sherlock asked tentatively.

            “Yes,” Mycroft said solidly.

            Sherlock crossed his legs, making himself look ridiculous but Mycroft was used to Sherlock’s odd way of twisting his body.

            “You gave up the solar system for me? The entire universe?” Sherlock turned his head and Mycroft found his brother’s face so close to his own. He nodded in mute silence.

            Sherlock nodded grimly. “Who needs it, anyway? Whether we go around the moon or the sun or even around the garden like a teddy bear it doesn’t change that we’re here now. What matters is that we keep on moving.”

            Mycroft smiled in pure love and appreciation of his brother. He had never told anyone else about his old aspirations and he always feared the idea, however childish, would be rejected. Only Sherlock could diffuse the situation and make it better. “Quite right,” he replied.

            “Lift your arm,” Sherlock said.

            Mycroft did it before thinking and Sherlock shimmied under it. He rested his head on Mycroft’s chest and Mycroft peered down at him in bewilderment. Sherlock gazed up with intelligent eyes and quirked lips and Mycroft felt a wave of adoration for the young man. He tipped his eyes back up to the sky.

            “That’s Ursa Minor,” he said, pointing to a cluster of stars. He felt Sherlock nod and it spurred him on. He continued to point out constellations until Sherlock shifted so he was once more looking up at his brother.

            “My?” he said softly so Mycroft looked down.

            “I love you,” Sherlock said.

            “I love you too,” Mycroft replied and he couldn’t help but feel that there was more behind the words than there had been before. They fell asleep curled in close to each other like they had as children and if the intimacy felt somewhat new and delicate, neither mentioned it late in the night when they woke and stumbled to their own rooms to sleep and dream of different lives.

           


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a realization and Mycroft comes home for the first time in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're about to hit the incest feelings. Once again, here is a warning. If you're grossed out by any sort of incest feelings, feel free to stop reading.
> 
> To all of my awesome readers who leave me comments, thank you so much! I adore you all!
> 
> This chapter isn't beta'd all mistakes are my own.

Sherlock was 16 when Mummy invited Mycroft back to the estate for the holidays. She did it with cold eyes and Sherlock standing in front of her, dangling his brother in front of him like a mouse in front of a cat. Mycroft was out of school and working in the government, though his position was minor. Sherlock watched his mother invite his brother home but all he could feel was dread.

            Mycroft felt the same dread when the phone call came.

            “Mycroft, love, it’s Mummy,” Violet simpered over the phone.

            “Hello,” he said cautiously.

            “Sherlock and I are making our plans for the holidays and I was hoping you’d come to visit. We’re having a party, and we’d so love for you to attend,” her voice dripped with poison and he could picture the smile on her face.

            “I thought I wasn’t allowed back,” he said stiffly.

            “Oh now, the past is the past. Sherlock and I miss you so very much,” she said.

            Sherlock and I. Us. We. Those were the words he used, not her. Sherlock wasn’t hers. He gritted his teeth against the anger and replied,

            “I can’t say I repay the sentiment but I will be there.”

            “Oh good,” she crooned, “Sherlock is so excited you should just see his face! He’s become so dashing. Just like his father.”

            Mycroft closed his eyes. His brother was standing in front of his mother, he deduced. He would be worried, nervous and flat out furious. He would be a hurricane trapped in the body of a teenage boy. Mycroft didn’t know how to feel about the change in events but when Mummy hung up, he had a plan. Sherlock was not hers. Sherlock was his. If he had stopped to analyze that thought it would have made him nervous but in his anger he plowed past it. He had seen Sherlock a week before and it had been strained. Sherlock, who was usually rather physical with Mycroft, had held himself away from his brother and had spoken in his “real world” voice of cold, clipped tones. It had worried Mycroft and now with the call from his mother, he worried even more. With work nipping at his heels he didn’t have time to worry too much and he promised himself he’d worry later over the development.

            He never managed to worry about it later, as life caught up with him. There was much to be done before he could leave his work and it wasn’t until he got into his car and told his driver where to go that he fully realized he was going home for a full week.  A full week with Sherlock and with Mummy. The impact of it hit him with full force and he sat rigidly staring out the window. He didn’t know what to expect.

 

            Violet was delighted. She hadn’t seen her eldest son in years because of a feud and though she believed she’d done the right thing for her sons, she was excited to have Mycroft home. She had missed him as a boy but it simply couldn’t be tolerated that her youngest son didn’t bide her like he did his brother. Something had to be done and she’d done it.

 She hadn’t missed the signs that Sherlock missed his brother just as she hadn’t missed the signs that they somehow saw one another over the years. Sherlock had played her well and it wasn’t until the cook had made a passing comment about Sherlock’s favorite book that Violet knew what had happened right under her nose. Sherlock’s favorite book had once been a pirate novel she’d bought for him but his coveted secret was on bee keeping and only Mycroft would condone such a useless talent.

            She figured it was time for the deception to stop. Though Sherlock sneered at Mycroft’s name she didn’t know what the truth was and it infuriated her. She had decided to bring both of her boys together and see the truth for herself. Being unsure was useless and simply would not do.

 

            Sherlock was at a loss. He knew his mother had noticed something. She’d grown much more lax but her eyes followed him as he left every room and she called simply simpering for him to come home on free weekends, not allowing him the time he wished to have alone or with Mycroft. As it was, he spent his time hiding in his room and working on experiments late into the night ignoring her lover sneaking from the house in the early light of morning. She had begun to take an interest not just in his studies but in him, asking if he slept well and avidly questioning him about the things he liked. He didn’t miss that her lip curled when he spoke of science and once she hit him so her nails made slash marks in his cheek when he asked about his father’s work with science. She was unstable and he worried about Mycroft being brought back into the house. Sherlock balanced with her as if they stood on a wobbling platform and with one wrong breath, they would both tumble. Mycroft could either be a soothing force or a catalyst and Sherlock wasn’t sure he wanted to find out which.

            Unlike his brother, Sherlock had a solid amount of time to worry and he did just that. While he grew different types of mold, dissected different types of bugs and even climbed different trees to see how brittle their branches were, he worried about Mycroft coming home. Finally, the day Mycroft was to come home, he sat at the top of a particularly thick tree and thought it through.

            He liked having alone time with Mycroft. He trusted Mycroft in a way he would never trust his mother. Mycroft didn’t tell him to be anything else but himself. Mycroft knew when he needed to be squeezed tight and talked out of his own head and he knew when all Sherlock needed was to be left alone. Mycroft was the only person Sherlock allowed to hold him. Even when Sherlock had dated the somewhat clever girl he met while testing chemicals in the school’s water he didn’t let her do anything but touch her chapped lips to his. She’d left him for someone more normal. She’d cried. He’d shrugged it off. Later, Mycroft had tickled him to make him laugh and though he was 15 and too old for tickle fights, he’d felt a spurt of joy for the brother who understood what he needed every time.

            He was in love with his own brother.

            He nearly fell from the tree when the revelation seeped into his mind. He’d known before, of course he had, but the words hadn’t managed to make an appearance in his consciousness until that moment. He loved Mycroft beyond what the word love meant in usual conversation. He loved tea. It wasn’t the same as what he felt for Mycroft. He adored his brother and would do anything to make him happy.

            It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t right. He knew that. Despite what everyone he knew (besides Mycroft) thought, he did understand right and wrong. He did know the social taboos, he just usually didn’t care. The things that interested him interested him and that was that. People blamed Mycroft for indulging him as a child and he felt forced to point out that Mycroft himself had been a child when Sherlock was in his formative years and the person they should blame was their mother for her astounding lack of parenting for either of her sons. He didn’t believe Mycroft had been too indulgent. He’d taught Sherlock everything about the world that he could, it was hardly his brother’s fault that Sherlock didn’t listen. Sherlock himself made the argument to people and they smiled with tame acceptance that he knew meant they pitied him. He hated pity. He wondered if Mycroft would pity him for what he felt.

            Mycroft had relationships. He had people. He didn’t have friends, neither of them really did, but Mycroft understood how he needed to act and he did it. Sherlock didn’t. The girls who followed him around did so because he was handsome and he’d heard one say once that he was too posh for words, proving to Sherlock that girls were insipid creatures that didn’t need to be tolerated. Mycroft had laughed at that and Sherlock had cataloged the color of his brother’s eyes when he smiled. Sherlock dated when it suited him but the messiness of dating and emotions made him shy away from it. Sherlock groaned. Emotions were not a strong suit for him and he half wished he hadn’t realized the truth. Sitting in the tree, he went over everything he knew about his brother and their relationship, hoping to prove himself wrong.

 

            Mycroft drove up on a Monday and found his welcome party lacking. Only Stanley stood outside the estate and he took Mycroft’s bags with a curt nod. Mycroft followed him into the large home listening for any signs of life. Stanley led him through the winding halls to Mycroft’s old room and only when he’d closed the door behind him did he speak.

            “Good to see you again, sir. Do you wish me to unpack?” Stanley asked.

            “No, it’s alright. Where is my brother? Mummy?” he asked.

            Stanley’s eyes darted around before he spoke. “Sherlock is out in the woods looking at his experiments and your mother is in the drawing room…refreshing herself.”

            Mycroft nodded. His mother was already drunk.  How fitting.

            “Sherlock first, I’d say,” Stanley said uncharacteristically.

            Mycroft raised his eyebrows at Stanley who simply nodded and bowed out of the room. Mycroft looked at his bags then at the door. He would have time to unpack. First, he needed to find Sherlock. He slipped out the back door as a glass clunked to the floor in the drawing room. He eased the door shut and nearly ran into the woods. He didn’t care that he was in his suit and that he was probably flinging mud back onto the expensive trousers, he just needed to see Sherlock and make sure everything was okay. The silence in the house was deafening and escape seemed prudent already.

            When Sherlock dropped from a tree right into his path he was so surprised he couldn’t stop. They tumbled to the ground. Sherlock huffed before he began to laugh.

            “Hello My, fancy seeing you here,” he chuckled.

            Mycroft tried to stand but he was tangled in his brother and all he succeeded in doing was falling back on top of him, knocking the air out of both of them.

            “Well, I could ask why you were in a tree but I doubt I want to know,” Mycroft replied, smiling down at Sherlock. Sherlock seemed to flush and turned his head away. As quickly as he’d been laughing, he frowned.

            “I was thinking. Are you getting up anytime soon?” Sherlock said sharply.

            Mycroft frowned. “I wondered what was wrong. Mummy wouldn’t call me for nothing. What’s the problem?” Mycroft shifted to his knees and Sherlock scrambled back.

            “Nothing is the matter. I’m fine. Mummy’s…well she’s the same as usual,” Sherlock said, turning his head.

            The scratch from Violet’s smack hadn’t healed fully and the angry red line caught Mycroft’s eye.

            “She hit you,” he said flatly.

            “I let her,” Sherlock replied.

            It could have been the truth. Sherlock wasn’t slow and he wasn’t stupid. He knew how to fight and how to defend himself. Mycroft had taught him some of his more sly moves. Mummy was also a cunning woman who had been married to an even smarter man. Mycroft wouldn’t put it past her to be able to hit Sherlock without him knowing it was coming.

            “She’s been guilting you,” Mycroft said.

            “She always guilts me. That is hardly new,” Sherlock said dismissively.

            “More than usual.”

            Sherlock frowned and pushed his hair out of his face. He fidgeted and finally snapped, “Yes. Fine! I think she figured it out. She’s been…sneaky for months and then she called you. Not only has she monopolized my time so I couldn’t make it into the city let alone to the flat but now this.”

            “We knew it might happen,” Mycroft said.

            “Yes but I didn’t anticipate it. Her agitation.”

            They sat in silence as Sherlock picked splinters of wood from his trousers and frowned.

            “Why are you out here with me, anyway? Mummy is probably salivating while waiting for you. I’m sure she has a great performance planned,” Sherlock said sullenly.

            Mycroft leaned forward so he could see Sherlock’s eyes. “Because you’re why I’m here, obviously. I didn’t come here for her.”

            Sherlock felt his heart begin to pound and he looked down, picking at his trousers with increasing fascination.

            “Sherl?” Mycroft sounded worried and Sherlock looked up.

            “I’m fine. Let’s go. Get this over with. Mummy is going to be livid that you came to me first.”

 

            Indeed she was. She was also drunk. As Sherlock dragged Mycroft into the drawing room she swung to face them, beaming.

            “Sherlock! Your brother…” she trailed off, her smile dropping.

            Sherlock walked forward with measured steps that nearly made Mycroft sick. Sherlock, who could move like a dancer when he was happy, walking with clipped steps. Sherlock took the glass for their mother and gently placed it on the mantel.

            “Mycroft is already here, Mummy,” he said, his voice hollow. The words were unnecessary but someone needed to say something.

            “I can see that,” she said flatly.

            “Mummy,” Mycroft greeted without warmth.

            “Well do come here. I haven’t seen you in ages,” she said.

Mycroft stepped forward and stood in front of her. He remembered a time when she had been lovely. Sweet and loving and the perfect mother. He’d call for her with enthusiasm to read him a story and she’d tickle his sides until he changed into his T-shirt for nighttime.  It had been a very long time since he’d thought of her with warmth and looking down at her swaying form and watery eyes all he felt was disgust.

            She pushed herself onto her toes and kissed his cheek sloppily. He hid his snarl. Sherlock stood like a statue, waiting.

            “You too, Sherlock. I do love to see my boys together again,” she slurred.

            Sherlock stepped next to Mycroft and she smiled with obvious malice.

            “Oh my boys. Sherlock, you look so much like your father. It is too bad you didn’t inherit his control. Have you told your darling brother of your discretions? I do hope not. And you, Mycroft, my lovely boy, you’ve grown so well into your body. Maybe a bit too well, true? You have your father’s control and hopefully his mind. Though don’t we wish you had his body as well?” her laughed rang across the room and Mycroft watched Sherlock set his shoulders as if standing tall would help him to withstand the pain.

            Mycroft felt his hands shaking and he placed them behind his back. This was what Sherlock lived with for years. He got away but for years he was trapped and the insults thrown at him were enough to wear him down. Again, Mycroft wondered at his influence on Sherlock. Over the years it would have been easier for Sherlock to start listening to Mummy. To start believing the lies she spouted about Mycroft. Maybe if he had, the insults and threats would have stopped. Instead he stood by his brother and believed in him, allowing the abuse to continue.

            Sherlock could see the thoughts run across Mycroft’s face. He wished he was alone. He wished he could tell his brother everything in his head without having Mycroft get disgusted. He twitched his fingers when Mycroft looked down, a sign of distress and the need to talk. He was rewarded with a sharp nod.

            “Mummy, may I go help Mycroft unpack? We haven’t spoken in quite some time,” Sherlock asked graciously.

            Violet laughed. “While I highly doubt that is the truth, go. I’m sick of you two already. Stanley!”

            Stanley shuffled in with another drink and Sherlock closed his eyes, his mouth a stern line. Mycroft wondered how many times scenes like this had played out. How many times had Sherlock tried for her and she’d pushed him away only to down another drink.

            “Sherlock, you can go. I wish to speak with Mummy for a moment,” Mycroft said coldly.

            It was a testament to the moment that Sherlock only nodded without arguing. He trudged away and Mycroft could hear him thumping up the stairs.

            “Why are you doing this?” Mycroft asked.

            “Doing what?” she smiled slowly. She wasn’t as drunk as she faked and Mycroft knew it. She had always been a mean drunk even when he’d been younger but she faked it sometimes so she could tell spiteful truths without ramifications.

            “Torturing him.”

            “My dear dear boy, I’m not the one torturing him. You torture him. School tortures him. I am preparing him,” she said.

            “For life?” Mycroft shifted his weight while he looked at his mother.

            “For everything. The world is not kind to brilliance. You gained everything you needed besides our metabolism which honestly is a wonderful trade off. He gained beauty and brains without the wall he needs to know when to shut up. The world won’t be kind to him. Not like you are,” she grinned.

            “He’s my brother,” Mycroft said stiffly. There was no use in fighting it. He knew she knew at least something about his relationship with Sherlock. There was no use hiding the fact that he cared for Sherlock still.

            “Yes and while I’m sure you think your bond is wonderful and strong, he didn’t tell you,” she nearly laughed.

            “Didn’t tell me what?” Mycroft asked.

            She smiled with true joy and malice. “Check his arms, dear one, then tell me you take such wonderful care of your brother.”

            Mycroft felt ice run in his veins. He turned on his heel and charged for the stairs, not caring that his mother laughed at his back and that his fear showed. When he charged through his door, Sherlock was sitting sullenly on the bed and Mycroft launched himself at his brother. Sherlock looked up in surprise and nearly caught an elbow in the face.

            “My? What the-“ the words cut off when Mycroft shoved Sherlock’s sleeve up.

            Track marks littered his left arm and Mycroft dropped it as if it burned to touch the marks. Sherlock blanched.

            “My…” he trailed off his, his voice begging.

            “How could you do this and not tell me?” Mycroft demanded. Sherlock flinched away, yanking his sleeve down roughly.

            “It was only a couple times. Dulled my mind. Boring. Mummy only noticed because I had to roll up my sleeves to finish an experiment,” Sherlock sighed.

            “Sherlock… it’s not healthy or prudent,” Mycroft strained. The anger seeped out of him and the worry set in like a rock in his stomach.

            “I know that! I don’t do things because they are prudent,” Sherlock spat back.

            Mycroft slid so he sat next to Sherlock and was transported into memories of younger days when Sherlock was small and things mostly uncomplicated.

            “Don’t do it anymore,” he said softly, making it a plea not a demand. Sherlock turned and his eyes were soft.

            “My…” he sighed and turned away once more.

            “Please, Sherl, just don’t. I don’t want to worry about you more than I do now,” Mycroft begged.

            “I stopped after our last weekend together. After you gave me the book on detecting and deduction. I need my brain to be a detective, don’t I?” Sherlock said hesitantly.

            Mycroft couldn’t help but beam. He had been right. Sherlock had always had a fascination with death and his mind would be perfect for the work of a detective. “You’ve decided then? A detective?”

            “Consulting. I don’t want to work with the force all the time and the masses…well, you know,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose and Mycroft recalled when Sherlock would wince at the taste of herbal tea without sugar, his small nose turning up. They had been younger than, Sherlock merely a little boy.

            “Not a lawyer then?” he laughed. If Sherlock said he wanted to be a detective, he was serious and if he was serious, he wouldn’t be doing any drugs anymore.

            Sherlock leaned against him in the way Mycroft was used to. He lifted his arm and Sherlock eased in closer.

            “Definitely not a lawyer. So boring. Look at you though, on your way to being Prime Minister. You know, that was a joke, right?” Sherlock chuckled.

            “What happened to being a pirate?” Mycroft shot back.

            “I grew up,” Sherlock said. And that, in short, was what happened to them both.

            Mycroft looked over at Sherlock and took him in. He was tall and somewhat gangly but when he’d accidently knocked them over he’d felt strength in his brother, coiled in his arms and in the way he’d pulled back when he had the chance. His hair curled just enough to be handsome and his eyes were still the stunning colors that seemed to change with his mood. Familiar affection swelled in his chest and he rubbed Sherlock’s hair until the young man protested.

            “You’re still a little git to me,” Mycroft laughed.

            “Tickle me and I swear I will get you back,” Sherlock growled but it was with a smile and Mycroft attacked.

            Sherlock shrieked with laughter in a way that he never did when having a normal conversation. He tried to push Mycroft away but Mycroft was bigger and knew all of Sherlock’s tricks. Sherlock shoved after a few seconds and finally managed to get the upper hand. He straddled Mycroft’s waist and rested his hands against Mycroft’s chest where his heart thumped wildly. He laughed up at Sherlock who grinned.

            “Got you,” Sherlock grinned.

            “You’ve gotten more stealthy,” Mycroft commented.

            “Necessity, wasn’t it?” Sherlock said. He didn’t move and Mycroft didn’t push him.

            “Git,” Mycroft said fondly.

            “Do you know any other insults?” Sherlock laughed, poking Mycroft in the stomach.

            “Oof, hey leave that be!” Mycroft pushed his hand away and Sherlock dropped his hands to the bed beside Mycroft, bringing their faces closer together.

            “Too much cake, My?”

            “Too little exercise,” Mycroft admitted.

            Sherlock smiled and something seemed to expand between them. Mycroft blinked. There was something more in the moment. Something more than he’d noticed before. He waited. Sherlock didn’t move. His breath smelled like mint as it danced across Mycroft’s face and he couldn’t find it in him to push his brother off.

            “Sherlock?” he said quietly.

            Sherlock didn’t move. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

            “If I tell you something, something secret, will you promise not to be disgusted with me?” Sherlock asked. He sounded as if his heart was breaking.

            Mycroft brought his hands up to hold Sherlock’s face still. When Sherlock had broken up with his girlfriend he had shown no emotion about it, shrugging off the fact that she didn’t feel he’d cared enough. He’d told Mycroft that he couldn’t bear to hold her, to let her close. Mycroft knew he was the only one allowed to touch his brother in any intimate way, whether it be a hug or just a friendly hand on the shoulder. If Sherlock was so distressed over the secret it had to be something worse than the track marks on his arm.

            “Of course I won’t be disgusted,” Mycroft replied softly.

            Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at Mycroft. There was terror in his face and Mycroft wanted to wipe it away. Sherlock blew out a sigh and let his head drop to Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft had always felt close to his brother and had grown used to him snuggling in when they watched telly and leaning on him when he grew tired but this was a new level of intimate.

            “Sherlock?” he said once more.

            “I love you,” Sherlock said miserably.

            “I know. Just tell me, it’s fine,” Mycroft said, rubbing Sherlock’s back.

            “No, My. I love you,” Sherlock said, lifting his head so the words weren’t muffled.

            Mycroft froze. Sherlock groaned in misery. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything,” Sherlock said.

            He rolled off of Mycroft and for one crazed moment, Mycroft almost pulled him back. He didn’t know what he wanted or what he felt but he didn’t want Sherlock to move away from him. Sherlock was his that much had always been obvious. He turned onto his side while Sherlock splayed on his back staring at the ceiling as if it had suddenly become fascinating.

            “I should’ve just…shut up like Mummy always tells me,” Sherlock told the ceiling.

            “No,” Mycroft said forcefully, “no matter what you don’t need to hide it from me.”

            Sherlock blinked. “You don’t…you aren’t disgusted?”

            “Sherl, feelings aren’t something we always control. Love is the worst of all, or so I’m told. Your feelings aren’t normal but that doesn’t make them disgusting.”

            “You don’t want it, though,” Sherlock blew out on a sigh.

            Mycroft thought about his answer. “I don’t know, honestly. I haven’t thought about it. I don’t want to. It’s wrong. Even if I don’t find it disgusting, it is wrong.”

            Sherlock shifted on the bed and frowned. “Even if you wanted me, it would never happen, would it?”

            “I’d say not,” Mycroft said, speaking carefully.

            Sherlock put his hand on Mycroft’s chest and Mycroft looked over. “Will you promise me one thing?”

            “Maybe,” Mycroft said.

            “Don’t let this ruin our weekends,” Sherlock begged.

            Mycroft looked at him, mystified. “When have I ever let anything ruin our weekends?”

            “There was that time that girl dumped you and you took it out on me for a whole Saturday,” Sherlock mused but he said it with a smile and Mycroft knew he was reassured.

            “That did not ruin our weekend, that ruined your weekend and if you recall, I brought you to a bee sanctuary to make up for it,” Mycroft smiled.

            “Well alright then, you don’t let things ruin our weekend. But this is a bit bigger than a girl,” he amended.

            “It is, but you’re my best friend, Sherl. And my brother. Nothing will change that,” Mycroft put his hand over Sherlock’s and squeezed.

            If he stopped to think about it, he would worry, but this time he simply didn’t want to. He didn’t want to worry about why he cared so much. Why Sherlock’s laugh and smile meant more to him than anything else or why his heart leapt when he saw Sherlock in the morning, shuffling from his room in their small flat, scratching his head. If he thought about it, he would worry they were sliding into something they could not possibly hope to escape unscathed but for the moment, he didn’t want to worry and so he simply didn’t.

            Sherlock grinned with relief and let his head roll so it rested against Mycroft’s arm.

            “Good to know I can’t mess this one up,” Sherlock said quietly. There was a silent underlying message in the sentence that neither brother missed and they stayed in the quiet together, both reveling in the fact that there was one person in the whole world who understood.

            They stayed there until they heard Mummy calling for them. Mycroft watched Sherlock leave the room while he unpacked and he couldn’t help but feel as if his heart left with his brother. Looking back at his bag, he realized he loved his brother. Good or bad, better or worse, he adored Sherlock and that would never change.

           


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The christmas party comes. Feelings are brought up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, disclaimer! Incest ahead!
> 
> not brit picked or beta'd. All mistakes are my own.

 

            Christmas came with a flurry of activity. After the first day, Violet made it her prerogative to keep her boys apart. She made Sherlock clean the inside of the house with Stanley and managed to lock Mycroft in his room for the better half of one day simply by telling him a work call had been missed earlier that morning. It became a game during the day. She whispered poisonous thoughts to Sherlock as he cleaned dishes and lined the ballroom with Christmas decorations. She goaded Mycroft with Sherlock’s past drug use and when they all ate dinner; she laughed and joked as if nothing was wrong. The only times Sherlock and Mycroft could find alone time was at night. Sherlock waited until Violet was asleep to sneak down the hall and into Mycroft’s room, easing the door shut.

            “Sherl, you shouldn’t be in here,” Mycroft said quietly. It was the same thing he said every night but it was never heeded.

            Sherlock was in his pajamas and he shuffled toward the bed with a small frown. Rubbing the back of his neck he shrugged.

            “I missed you,” he said simply.

            Mycroft couldn’t argue with that and he pulled back the sheet. Sherlock slipped in with a long sigh.

            “Today she told me that when you leave this time you won’t ever come back. That me trying…what I tried made you hate me,” Sherlock said tiredly.

            Mycroft didn’t look at Sherlock as he spoke. “You know she’s lying.”

            “Yes,” Sherlock said with enough feeling to make Mycroft turn on his side.

            “Is there something wrong with us, My?” Sherlock asked, his bright eyes finding Mycroft’s in the dark.

            “Why would you ask that?” Mycroft questioned.

            “Because. I don’t love anyone else. At all. In any way. When Mummy speaks it sounds like a serpent. She wants me to be hers, she says so, and I pretend but…I have to pretend with everyone. You don’t love anyone else, either. Is there something wrong with us?”

            Mycroft’s lips twitched and Sherlock flicked his eyes down for a moment before looking up and  catching Mycroft’s eyes again with his own. Mycroft swallowed the sudden ball in his throat and flipped onto his back so he wouldn’t watch Sherlock’s mouth when he spoke.

            “There is nothing wrong with us. We’re just different,” Mycroft said.

            “My,” Sherlock said frankly, “We’re lying in the same bed in the middle of the night and once we’re done talking, you’ll let me cuddle with you, for lack of better wording. I’m 16. It’s not for childhood comfort and you know it.”

            Mycroft thought it over. “It’s not wrong,” he said defensively when he could think of nothing else to say.

            “I’m surprised you’d say that,” Sherlock yawned.

            Mycroft lifted his arm and pulled Sherlock into his side. His brother was a heater when he was tired and Mycroft was cold. Or so he told himself.

            “Why?” he murmured, rubbing his hand along Sherlock’s shoulders.

            “Because you told me it was wrong for me to want to be with you. But this isn’t wrong? You care about what people think, My. I usually don’t. But there’s this line I’m not sure if we’re crossing,” Sherlock said gently.

            “I care about what people think of you,” Mycroft said.

            He felt a light touch on his throat and stiffened as Sherlock rested his head once more on his chest.

            “I know you do. You don’t need to,” Sherlock said.

            “Did you just kiss me?” Mycroft asked.

            Sherlock shrugged but didn’t say anything.

            “Sherl,” Mycroft sighed.

            “I know. I know. I just wanted to try it. I’ll stop. Do you want me to go to my room?” Sherlock moved to get up but Mycroft held on to him.

            “No. We need to talk about this,” he said.

            Sherlock sunk back down and curved closer to Mycroft. Mycroft felt his body relax. It had always been odd to him that they’d only ever slept in the same bed at the estate. For years they’d grown closer in their shared flat but it seemed taboo to sleep in the same bed. Maybe it was because the estate was their childhood home and they could pretend it was their younger days or maybe it was because it was where they both felt at their weakest and they needed one another. Whatever the reason, Mycroft couldn’t let Sherlock leave and Sherlock knew could move closer without ramification. He snuggled in.

            “You used to tell me that caring was our advantage. Do you still think that’s true?” Sherlock asked.

            Mycroft ruffled his hair. “Yes.”

            “But we don’t care for Mummy,” Sherlock argued.

            Mycroft sighed. “No, we don’t but she stopped caring for us first. She used to be wonderful, though I’m sure you don’t remember that.”

            Sherlock nodded and they lay in silence.

            “Do you think if Daddy had lived we would be different?” Sherlock asked.

            Mycroft had thought Sherlock had fallen asleep and he jumped at the voice in the dark. He knew what he believed the answer was but he didn’t know how to say it.

            “Yes. I think life would be very different for us,” he said finally.

            Sherlock rolled nearly onto his stomach and shimmied down the bed so he could stretch his arms out. He peered up at Mycroft with a small smile.

            “I don’t think I would change this for anything,” he said.

            Mycroft looked down at his brother and felt his heart expand. In that single clear moment he knew what he felt. His hand dropped from its place on his chest as he sucked in a breath. He loved Sherlock. Not just as a brother and not just as a best friend. He looked down and felt the words sucked from his body. The air seemed thick in his lungs as he stared into his brother’s eyes. It was wrong. They both knew it. It was illegal and wrong but he loved Sherlock and he knew in that one unnerving moment that he would never love anyone else like that for the rest of his life.

            “My?” Sherlock lifted himself onto his elbows and looked at his brother.

            Mycroft let out a strangled sigh. “I wouldn’t change it for anything either,” he struggled to say.

            Sherlock let himself fall back down. “I don’t remember Daddy,” he admitted.

            “I do,” Mycroft said.

            “Mummy says I’m a lot like him,” Sherlock said, sounding bitter.

            Mycroft rolled onto his stomach and said, “You are but not in any bad way. He was handsome and brilliant. That’s what you are. Mummy told Stanley that he was the kind of man who made every other person blur. He was an eclipse. Exactly like you.”

            “Romantic,” Sherlock said on a sigh.

            Mycroft chuckled. “Reading into things.”

            “Conjecture,” Sherlock laughed slightly.

            “Quite.”

            Sherlock yawned. “I think there is something wrong with us but it doesn’t matter. Because whatever it is, it’s both of us. Caring is our advantage, isn’t it?”

            Mycroft couldn’t help but rub Sherlock’s back as he answered, “For us, yes. It always has been and I believe it always will be.”

            Sherlock stretched and curled into himself. “Good. G’night, My. Love you,” he slurred, already half asleep.

            Mycroft smiled fondly. Sherlock had always been able to put troubling things aside when he felt he needed to. As a child he fell asleep as a storm that suddenly ended. All fight and gall until suddenly, he was calm. Curled up in a ball he looked like he had as a young boy and Mycroft yawned, turning back onto his side so he could watch Sherlock breathe. If he was lucky, Sherlock would move on. He was only 16. A love at 16 didn’t last forever. If he was lucky, Sherlock wouldn’t push. And if he was being truthful, the thought of Sherlock leaving him in any capacity scared him beyond words. If he was lucky, Sherlock would but he didn’t want him to. He didn’t need to worry yet though, and with the final scraps of fear pushed from his mind, he draped his arm over Sherlock’s waist and fell asleep with the warmth of his brother beside him.

 

            It was the night of the Christmas part and Sherlock wore a suit. It was dark and tailored to fit him so when he ran his pale hands down the front of the jacket it strained against him for a moment only to settle perfectly. He smirked at his own reflection and when Mycroft entered the room, their eyes met in the mirror. Mycroft smiled but his eyes flickered away after a moment’s glace. His own suit was a charcoal grey and he held an expensive umbrella.

            “Finally bought that monstrosity then,” Sherlock laughed.

            He looked dashing and for a moment he could have been their father as a young man. Mycroft blinked away the image and tapped the tip of the umbrella on the floor.

            “If you had taken up fencing, you might have actually wanted one,” he said mildly.

            “I’m joking, My. It isn’t that bad. It’s rather dashing with that suit, actually. Very charismatic. I’m sure all the ladies will be quivering in their expensive heels when you walk by,” he grinned.

            Sherlock was in a good mood and Mycroft couldn’t keep his own sour disposition when his brother laughed. He smiled in return.

            “That is you, dear brother. They will fall, swooning at your feet.”

            “Yes, well the sentiment is quite lost on me, isn’t it? They needn’t even bother,” Sherlock said, fixing an imaginary wrinkle in his jacket. He found he couldn’t look at Mycroft while he spoke.

            Mycroft took in the heavy silence and spoke softly, “don’t break too many hearts, brother-mine. You don’t know how much of an appeal you truly hold.”

            Sherlock’s eyes shot up but Mycroft had already begun to walk away. Sherlock stood in stunned silence, letting the words replay in his mind. By the time he made it down to the ballroom, he’d pulled as much information from them as he could. He peeked at Mycroft while Mummy fussed over his suit and pretended to care about her boys. Looking down, he began to greet guests, not bothering to smile. Violet slammed her heel down on his toe so he gritted his teeth and forced his lips to curve upward, though most of the guests hurried by him only with a quick hello, his face looking more feral than inviting.

 

            Sophia Lane would not leave Mycroft alone. She had watched him place his umbrella carefully against the wall and that had been it. She tagged along when he got himself a drink and she begged for a dance when the music changed to a lively tune. Mycroft thought of Sherlock learning the violin and smiled. She took it as an invitation which is how Mycroft found himself on the dance floor swinging her and her ghastly pale green gown in circles on the floor. He ignored her adoring gaze and sought out Sherlock. He was frowning sourly at the punch bowl, leaning on his left arm, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He also had a gaggle of girls standing behind him whispering. He ignored them. Mycroft smiled and Sophia followed his gaze.

            “Oh isn’t it a pity then?” she said.

            “Isn’t what?” Mycroft asked, turning his attention back to her.

            “Isn’t it a pity,” she said with patience.

            “I heard you. Isn’t what a pity?” he said more sharply than he meant.

            She blinked. “Why, that he’s gotten himself all wrapped up in that terrible Victor boy. I thought you would know, being his brother and all. We all knew he was a bit…odd and no one was surprised when we found out he was gay though my sister cried for ages. Fancied him, of course, poor girl. Terrible business that. Though maybe I shouldn’t have said,” she spoke quietly but Mycroft could feel the malice. She wanted to rub her knowledge in his face. He stopped moving so abruptly she stumbled.

            “Listen carefully,” he said coolly under his breath, “you will not speak of Sherlock in any way ever again. My brother is not a pawn in your sexual advances nor is he any of your business. You might think you are clever, but I assure you, we are far smarter than you. After all, you’re only the eldest bastard of your father. Add on the drinking problem and oh dear, what a scandal you’ve become. I do not air your dirty laundry in a public room, you should show my brother the same courtesy.  Do be more careful in the future when choosing the partners you wish to whisper lies to.”

            He strode away, leaving her staring in horror at his back. He walked up to Sherlock with purpose. The girls behind his brother scattered and Sherlock looked up, his face a mask of indifference but Mycroft read the surprise in his eyes.

            “Walk with me?” he asked formally.

            Sherlock nodded.

            They walked past their mother who shot them daggers with her eyes but Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock’s back and guided him from the party. He didn’t speak until he’d herded Sherlock into the study and locked the door behind him.

            “Are you doing something untoward with that Victor git?” Mycroft asked through gritted teeth.

            Sherlock started in surprise. “No. Not since the drugs. I told you I stopped that.”

            “Did you…” Mycroft trailed off and looked at the ceiling. Sherlock let out a bark of unbelieving laughter when the question sunk in.

            “Did I shag him? No. Well, not really,” he replied.

            “Not really?” Mycroft strained.

            Sherlock tipped his head. “Not really as in there was no penetration and he did all the work. What is this about?”

            “This is about you shagging the wanker who used to send you home with black eyes,” Mycroft hissed.

            Sherlock stepped closer to Mycroft. “Why do you care?”

            “You’re my brother,” Mycroft answered automatically.

            “You do realize that response doesn’t work for everything I ask you,” Sherlock said skeptically.

            Mycroft didn’t respond. Sherlock moved closer until his breath played across Mycroft’s lips.

            “My, it wasn’t anything. We were high. He wanted to see if I’d like it. I didn’t. That was it. It’s over. He calls me a freak now, if that helps anything,” Sherlock said.

            Mycroft pushed Sherlock back and sighed loudly. “There are so many things wrong with that, I can’t even start to explain.”

            Sherlock shrugged. “I got bored. You know. I needed to do something. It’s not like I’m someone’s property. I can do what I like.”

            Mycroft’s eyes snapped up to Sherlock’s face and Sherlock took a step back nervously. He didn’t like the look in his brother’s eye. Sherlock knew what most people didn’t. Mycroft Holmes was not a person you messed with. Not unless you wanted to end up in a terribly bad situation.  

            “That’s where you’re wrong Sherl, you’re mine. You always have been. Since the day father died and you hid under this couch, you’ve been mine. I know I told you I didn’t know how I felt, that it was wrong. That I’d never want you. And I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But I love you. No matter how wrong it is. I don’t get angry easily, you know that, but when that insipid woman started whispering about you, I snapped. And now it’s true. Everything she said to me is true and the only thing I find myself caring about is how someone else could ever have touched you when you belong to me.”

            Mycroft growled in frustration and Sherlock stared at him in shock.

            “My…” Sherlock reached for Mycroft and Mycroft moved quickly, switching their positions so Sherlock was pressed against the door.

            “You see but you don’t always observe,” he said, running his hands down Sherlock’s arms, “I adore you. I nearly worship you. It isn’t healthy and it isn’t right but no one else should touch you. No one else should ever know how you like to sleep or how you like your tea or the perfect way to make you smile when you’re so lost in your own mind. That’s all mine. You’re all mine and I believe I will love you like this, fiercely and irrevocably for the rest of my life.”

            Sherlock blinked back his surprise and reached a shaking hand to touch Mycroft’s chest over his heart.

            “And this is mine?” he asked softly. The tirade of words hadn’t scared him, they had only given him hope that the thing he wished for so desperately might be within his reach.

            Mycroft rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing deeply. Sherlock smelled of chemicals and Mycroft’s soap. He smiled. If he was damned, he was going to be damned happy about it. Hell might hold a place for him but nothing that felt so perfectly right could ever be ignored. He loved Sherlock and there was no way he could ever take it back. He didn’t lie to Sherlock and he never had. With a smile, he responded.

            “Yes, Sherl, it’s all yours.”

            Sherlock didn’t pull Mycroft’s head up; he simply wrapped his arms around his brother and held tightly. They stood together in their father’s study, holding tight to one another. They reveled in the shared connection and ignored what the future might bring. In a moment of complete understanding, the two simply stayed quiet.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sherlock's birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter since it's valentine's day and I was busy!
> 
> not beta'd all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> disclaimer: incest ahead. Read at your own risk.

There was no ignoring the fact that it had become awkward between them. When Mycroft left after the holidays, he promised he’d get Sherlock out for his 17th birthday and from there, Sherlock had gone back to being alone with their mother and locking himself away to do experiments. After the Christmas party they had hardly seen one another alone and when they did, they didn’t know how to act. It had all been quiet mumbling and brief eye contact that ended with both studying the walls or floors as if looking for a treasure map.

When Sherlock’s birthday came, he opened his eyes in his estate home and felt pure terror settle in his stomach.

            Violet had tried to monopolize his birthday but had only managed to secure a late brunch before the car would come to collect Sherlock. Sherlock found he wasn’t looking forward to either occurrence as he laid in bed, staring at the ceiling.

            “Sherlock, sweetheart, I’ve set the table,” she called sweetly up the stairs but Sherlock wasn’t fooled. She had many tricks up her sleeves and he was ready for every one of them. She liked to think she was clever, but he was far more brilliant.

            “Yes Mummy, I’m coming,” he called back on a yawn.

            He shuffled down into the dining room only to find his mother dressed to the nines with a mimosa in her hand.

            “Darling! Happy birthday! I do wish you’d stay here with me until you have to leave. Your wretched brother takes up too much of your time as it is. And don’t you think he’s just too old to be spending time with a teenager?” she smiled.

            Sherlock had a picture of a snake in long grass, waiting to strike sitting in his mind. He managed a slight smile before flopping into his chair.

            “He’ll come and pick me up this afternoon,” he said.

            “You mean he’ll send a car,” Violet smirked, sucking down half her drink. Sherlock winced subtly.  Stanley placed Sherlock’s breakfast in front of him. Sherlock looked down with a sneer at the dry eggs.

            “I remember you like them dry,” Violet said over the top of her glass.

            “Right,” he said flatly, pushing the plate back, “well I need to finish packing. This has been riveting.”

            “Sherlock?” she said with bewilderment.  Maybe she had tried, but the gesture was lost in the fact that she was completely wrong. He couldn’t bear to be with her one more second.

            “Mycroft will be here soon,” he said over his shoulder. When he heard the glass shatter against the wall he smirked. Stanley watched Sherlock stalk by and set his shoulders before moving into the dining room. Sherlock grinned when he heard Violet shout. Locking his door behind him, he collapsed at his desk, pulling open his now bent up book on detective reasoning.

 

            Mycroft was also terrified. He also knew it was stupid to be so scared of his 17 year old brother but he reasoned that it also was somewhat stupid to harbor romantic feelings for his brother, so the fear evened out in its own way. He wanted to be with Sherlock for his birthday, he just didn’t know what being with him would consist of. They were going to their flat for what Mycroft believed would be the last time. Sherlock was graduating from Eton in the coming year and would soon be off to uni where he would be away from their mother and Mycroft had finally bought a house he could be proud of. They wouldn’t need the flat anymore but somehow, that was more depressing than neither one of them moving on from it. He wouldn’t sell it, but it seemed that there were past the point in their life that they needed it.

            Mycroft worked through the few days he had without Sherlock and as always, he put Sherlock to the back of his mind so he could get everything done. He didn’t worry until he left the office and the weight of what had happened at Christmas slammed down on him. After the moment in the study, Violet had made sure they didn’t have time to speak to one another and she forced Mycroft to spend quality time with Sophia Lane, saying it would make her old heart happy. Sophie acted terrified of Mycroft while Mycroft gave her watery indifference, making Violet even more livid. Sherlock had spent the time sulking in his room and hadn’t come out when Mycroft left, only spending enough time with his brother to give a sullen yes to a private birthday celebration.

            Mycroft wasn’t sure why Sherlock had been so eager to avoid him but he hoped they could discuss the issue when he picked his brother up. He debated only sending a car but after agonizing over every reaction Stanley, Mummy and Sherlock might have, the pros of going in the car were far better than the cons of going and he found himself sitting in the back of the car tapping his new umbrella on his leg.

            Sherlock looked surprised when Mycroft climbed out and Violet frowned, clearly having thought Mycroft would only send a car and not come to retrieve his brother himself. That alone was reason enough to be there and he felt glee shoot up his spine.

            “Sherlock,” he greeted with a small smile.

            “Mycroft,” Sherlock nodded. Only Mycroft would see the shy happiness in his brother’s eyes.

            “Mummy,” he said with a nod.

            “Mycroft. How lovely to see you once more so soon,” she said flatly.

            “Yes, isn’t it just? Too bad that we can’t stay,” he said shortly, nearly shoving Sherlock into the car. Sherlock slid in quickly, staring anxiously as Stanley handed his bag over to Mycroft.

            “Take care of him, he is my one and only,” Violet said under her breath. Even Stanley jerked and Sherlock peeked his head out of the car.

            “Mummy,” he said, his voice low.

            “Right. Sherlock thinks I’m behaving badly. Perhaps I am. Goodbye, dear boy. Do bring your brother back in one piece. I will be so desolate if you’ve destroyed him once more,” she said as she turned away, striding back into the estate, her nose in the air.

            Mycroft climbed into the car and watched Sherlock relax against the window.

            “Well, that was new,” he said.

            “Not really,” Sherlock replied, “she’s like that nearly every day before she’s drunk. Mean and ready to say anything. It’s almost a relief when she starts drinking so much they just fall out of her hand.”

            He shrugged and Mycroft felt the horror roll in his stomach. He had left Sherlock with her. He’d assumed that with him gone she would mellow, that she would at least try to love her son correctly but without her husband, she had no balance. Violet Holmes had once been a lovely, clever woman. Without her husband she was a clever woman who needed to forget the past. Time had turned her sour and made her despise the children who loved each other more than her. He reached out to Sherlock and for a moment, Sherlock flinched. For just one second there was doubt and Mycroft’s hand faltered. Then Sherlock sighed and leaned in. He moved away from the window and leaned into his brother.

            To the driver they would look like brothers sharing a moment of calm. Brothers who needed one another to survive. Mycroft looked at his beautiful brother and felt his heart throb. To the driver they were brothers but to themselves, they were so much more. Sherlock turned his head into Mycroft’s shoulder and Mycroft tightened his grip.

            “I’m sorry Sherl, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” he said softly.

            “And I didn’t tell you. It isn’t something you should worry about. Despite your hatred of politics you are moving quite quickly up the government ladder and these trivial things aren’t what you need to worry about,” Sherlock shrugged.

            “Trivial? It’s abuse, Sherl. Plain and simple. I should have done something about it earlier but I didn’t think I could,” Mycroft said.

            “You couldn’t.  You still can’t. She’s good at faking it. She could be a good parent and make you look spiteful. I’m not stupid, My,” Sherlock scoffed.

            Mycroft couldn’t help but smile. “No, you’re anything but.”

            Sherlock nodded, satisfied with the answer. Mycroft still felt uneasy but he could tell Sherlock was done with the conversation so he moved on. Sherlock shifted back into his seat while Mycroft cleared his throat.

            “The government though, really My?” Sherlock smirked. He liked to goad his brother about his job and Mycroft rose to the bait.

            “The things you hate the most become the things you love sometimes,” Mycroft said.

            “I do not believe that for a second. More like, keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Sherlock said.

            Mycroft laughed.

            “Quite,” he said.

            Sherlock smiled and all unease was forgotten until they made it to the flat. Sherlock stood outside the door and fidgeted with the strap of his bag until Mycroft opened the door. He spilled into the flat and nearly ran for his room, slamming the door shut behind him. Mycroft followed him in at a slower pace, utterly baffled by the change in behavior. One moment Sherlock wanted to be near him, the next he was gone in a flurry of long arms and spindly legs.

            “Sherlock is like a storm,” Violet had said once when Sherlock was only 3, “all raging and unsure of where to go next. He touches down and then moves on so quickly you aren’t sure what happened. If we’re lucky, he will be just as collected as you but with the same mind of his father. Just like you, dear one. Just like you.”

            Mycroft believed it was true as Sherlock once more blew out of his bedroom door and flew onto the couch, the movement stopping so suddenly he had to blink.

            “One year older. Boring. Why do we celebrate these days again?” he asked.

            “Because they are milestones to normal people,” Mycroft said. He lifted Sherlock’s head and slipped beneath it, laying the mop of curls along his lap with a small sigh.

            Sherlock froze and Mycroft in turn stiffened. Finally, Sherlock let out a long sigh and relaxed saying,

            “But we are nowhere near normal. So why?”

            “Because we want to,” Mycroft said firmly.

            “I don’t want to,” Sherlock argued.

            Mycroft pulled his hair slightly so Sherlock turned his head to look up.

            “Yes, but I wanted to see you without Mummy and you wanted to get out of that house. This is what we call a win, win situation, I believe.”

            Sherlock pouted. “I wanted to see you too. Everything I do isn’t all about Mummy,” he whined.

            “I never said it was,” Mycroft huffed mildly.

            Sherlock turned onto his back and stared up with a small smile. “You implied.”

            “Since when do you care about implications?” Mycroft smiled back.

            “Since they’re your implications,” Sherlock wiggled his whole body so his hair tickled Mycroft’s palms.  It was a small move of contentment that rocked both of them back into the moment, reminding them of their situation.

            Mycroft stopped breathing. Sherlock stared. Suddenly, Mycroft’s fingers were tight in Sherlock’s hair and Mycroft was leaning down. Sherlock closed his eyes but Mycroft’s lips only just brushed his forehead. When Sherlock opened his eyes again Mycroft was still leaning in close and he smiled intimately.

            “Happy birthday, Sherl,” he said quietly.

            Sherlock lifted himself up quickly and touched his lips to Mycroft’s. Mycroft didn’t flinch but he did look startled when Sherlock fell back into his lap only a breath later. Sherlock grinned widely.

            “Now it’s a good birthday,” he said, beaming. He seemed to have pushed the taboo from his mind and was intent on enjoying the day.

            “I’d say so,” Mycroft said.

            Neither of them said it, but the words were known. Mycroft continued to stroke his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock began to tell him about becoming a detective and the experiments he was doing at school and through it all the words ran like an undercurrent in each of their minds.

            _I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you._

It was the best birthday Sherlock ever had and Mycroft had to concede it was one of the best days he’d ever had as well. Listening to Sherlock and watching his wild gestures he let his adoration pour from his skin and Sherlock, in turn, seemed to spark with life and joy. The day was filled with laughter and happiness and neither of them anticipated what would come next.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected event happens, knocking both brothers back into each other's lives in ways they hadn't expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer as usual: incest ahead. Don't read if it grosses you out.
> 
> not brit picked, sorry if I got some university details wrong.

Violet Holmes died when Sherlock was 18 and Mycroft 25. Sherlock got the call at uni and was baffled when he found out that he was expected to tell Mycroft himself.

            “Why wasn’t he called first? He’s older. He holds the trust for when I turn 25,” Sherlock argued.

            “Your mother changed her will a few years back. She opened your trust to you at 18 and split the estate between you and your brother. It was her explicit direction that we call you, Mr. Holmes, in the case of her death. Only you.”

            “Why?” Sherlock asked harshly. He was in the school office, leaning on the desk and ignoring the young assistant who was looking at him with a mix of adoration and sadness.

            “I’m not sure, Mr. Holmes. All the affairs have been organized; we only need your okay to get everything rolling.”

            “Yes…right. Do that,” he said.

Without a goodbye he hung up. He leaned on the desk with both hands and let his head hang. The assistant fluttered about.

            “Do you need anything?” she finally asked and he peered at her with cold eyes.

            “Yes. I need you to leave me be so I can decide what to say to my brother about this,” he snapped.

            She recoiled but he just let out a noisy sigh and snapped the phone up again. He dialed Mycroft’s office by memory and waited until his secretary picked up.

            “Hello, Mr. Holmes office,” she said primly.

            “I need to speak with my brother,” he said without preamble.

            “Ah, Sherlock. He’s in an important call right now. I can put you on hold,” her voice warmed slightly.

            “No time for such pleasantries I’m afraid. Something has happened and I must speak with him urgently,” Sherlock said.

            “It’s a very busy day, you must understand,” she sounded apologetic and Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before saying,

            “Our mother has died. I need to speak with my brother right this moment.”

            The silence on the end of the phone was nearly deafening and Sherlock waited impatiently, ignoring the sad glances of all those in the office. Finally, his brother’s secretary sighed.

            “I’m very sorry. I’ll put you through.”

            Sherlock nodded as if she could see him and waited. Mycroft answered, his voice filled with annoyance.

            “I’m busy, Sherlock, couldn’t this wait?”

            “Mummy’s dead,” Sherlock said flatly. There was no need to sugarcoat it for his brother. Mycroft knew that Sherlock despised sentiment and he hadn’t liked their mother much. The time for gentle wording and chaste speech was gone. Mycroft sucked in a breath. Sherlock ignored the rest of the office who all seemed surprised at his tone.  Sherlock heard Mycroft put his hand over the phone as he spoke in muffled tones to his secretary. He came back to the call with a slight clatter, making Sherlock assume he’d dropped his coffee mug.

            “When?” Mycroft asked stiffly.

            “Last night. Stanley found her.”

            The assistant made soothing noises and Sherlock turned from her in disgust.

            “Right. Everything is taken care of? Do we need to meet for the reading of the will?’ Mycroft questioned.

            “The estate is split in half between us both. My trust is open to me now. I told them to go ahead with whatever she had planned. Should we meet for the will? Is that what we’re supposed to do?” Sherlock sighed.

            “Probably,” Mycroft sounded tired.

            “Right. When?” Sherlock ignored the tutting of the office as they listened in.

            “I’ll be on my way to get you in a few hours. You can get out of your studies?” Mycroft was already writing down directions for work while he was gone and he waved in his secretary to take the notes and start making calls.

            “Of course. Dead mother is high on the list of things that get you out of studies. I’ve already been excused for the better part of a week and if I’m still grieving, I can hold it off for even longer. I’ll go pack,” Sherlock said.

            “Right. I’ll see you soon,” Mycroft said quickly, the phone already halfway back to its cradle. Sherlock had already hung up anyway and Mycroft said softly to his empty office, “I love you.” He didn’t know who he was speaking the words to as he stared across the room and felt the overwhelming emptiness appallingly. He finally stood and began to make arrangements to leave and pick up his brother.

 

            When Mycroft got to Cambridge he expected to find Sherlock waiting at the curb by his dorm but other than students buying tea and coffee from venders, there was no one there. He got out of the car with a noisy sigh and stalked up to the door, entering the building with rigid shoulders. It was his own form of protest and he was almost proud of his restraint until he reached his brother’s floor.

He shoved open Sherlock’s door to the sight of his brother, head titled back and lips parted, while another young man held a needle to his arm. Sherlock sighed and it sounded almost sexual. Mycroft cringed.

            “That’s it,” the boy said, “isn’t it nice?”

            Mycroft stood still as a stone, watching his brother shoot up.

            “Not as nice as the last batch,” Sherlock argued. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly.

            “While I could argue this all day, isn’t your brother coming? Dead mother and all,” the boy smirked, pulling the needle out roughly so Sherlock winced.

            Mycroft felt himself stiffen in anger. Sherlock had promised him and he’d believed his brother. He’d believed he was done with drugs. He’d believed what Sherlock wanted in the future mattered more.

            “Doubtful he’ll be on time. Busy one, my brother,” Sherlock purred. He ran his long fingers through the boy’s hair with a sensual smile.

            Mycroft had never seen this side of Sherlock and it made him sick. He could see the falsity. His brother was playing the other man, using his beauty to get what he wanted. Sherlock had always been stunning but Mycroft had never seen him use it before. As Mycroft thought, the other boy lifted himself from his place at Sherlock’s feet and caught his mouth in a hungry kiss. It was nothing like the chaste kisses Mycroft had given his brother. Nothing like the innocence and joy they shared. It was nearly sloppy and filled with the promise of sex. He could hardly believe neither of them had seen him, but as he mused on about Sherlock’s lack of attention, Sherlock’s eyes flicked up and he smiled with his mouth still captured by the man in front of him. He pulled back slowly, pushing the other man back somewhat roughly.

            “Mycroft, how lovely. You are here on time,” he said.

            Mycroft hid his anger from the other man but Sherlock saw it and acknowledged it with a light nod and smile. He was baiting Mycroft and Mycroft refused to let him win.

            “You haven’t introduced me to your….friend,” he said, turning cold eyes on the boy at Sherlock’s feet.

            “This is Victor. He was just selling me some…sweets,” Sherlock leaned back lazily.

            Victor began to shove small bags into the knapsack he had, looking at the floor as if it was fascinating. His moves were jerky and uncoordinated, taking more time than he wanted.

            “Right. Well. You can pay me later, Sherlock,” he said as he stood. He charged toward Mycroft who didn’t move from the door but rather leaned on his umbrella and grinned with feral intent.

            “It is delightful to meet one of Sherlock’s friends. Do tell me, how is my brother doing here?” he asked.

            Victor opened his mouth but no sound came out. Mycroft studied the track marks on the man’s arm and let his eyes climb back up to Victor’s face. Victor got the point. Sherlock wasn’t happy and he made it clear.

            “Mycroft, let him go. Don’t we need to be on our way?”

            Victor managed to squeeze past Mycroft and he nearly ran down the hall in his effort to escape. Sherlock laughed when Mycroft slammed the door shut.

            “Hello brother, how are you?” Sherlock asked, letting his head roll back, his eyes shut.

            “You’re high,” Mycroft replied.

            “Very good deduction. How _did_ you know?” Sherlock giggled. When he opened his eyes and looked at Mycroft, his eyes were wide and bright.

            “How long?” Mycroft demanded.

            “Oh dear, no polite conversation first?” Sherlock chuckled. Mycroft strode across the room with perfect intent and Sherlock grinned. Mycroft leaned over him.

            “When did you start this again?” he growled.

            “Relax. Only a month ago. Do you know how superbly boring it is here? Everyone is an idiot,” Sherlock replied.

            Mycroft grabbed Sherlock’s arm roughly so he pressed on the newest needle mark. Sherlock winced as Mycroft ripped him from his seat.

            “You are not coming back here,” he said dangerously.

            “I don’t believe that is your choice, brother,” Sherlock snapped.

            “What happened to you?” Mycroft asked, “What has changed in the month that I haven’t seen you?”

            “Well, there have been the studies of course, then there were the visits from Mummy as she got sick and of course the deafening silence from you while she whispered in my ear about us being forgotten. Been a wonderful month, don’t you think? Mummy drinking herself into an even worse stupor but not without spitting that venom. Oh, also there was Victor who offered me the best way out I could find for one small price. I never realized how much sex could be worth,” Sherlock drew circles on the desk behind him with his fingertips and Mycroft felt sick as Sherlock spoke.

            “You didn’t,” he said through the gritted teeth.

            “Only a few times. I’ve got to keep it a novelty or I’d actually have to pay him,” Sherlock said with obvious malice.

            “Why are you angry with me?” Mycroft asked, pushing himself away from the table. He ignored the temptation of screaming at his brother and stuck to what was truly bothering him.

            “Many reasons, brother, but if you’d like only one, let’s go with the fact that you’ve abandoned me. Does your sweet secretary tell you how much I call? How many times Mummy has come to say cruel things that I shouldn’t believe but maybe, maybe I’m beginning to? No, I doubt it. You’re always too busy. Maybe I should have known. ”

            “I am never too busy for you,” Mycroft said with quiet intensity. Sherlock laughed without humor.

            “Right. Well. Shouldn’t we be off?  A will to read and grieving to do, I expect. You’ve got that posh new house. I’m dying to see it,” Sherlock said, his eyes flickering back and forth while he looked beyond his brother.

            Mycroft could feel that it was the end of their conversation and he closed his eyes briefly as he turned to the door.

            “Right. The car is waiting.” _Don’t think we’re done talking about this._ Mycroft glared.

“Of course. Always on a schedule.” _Oh dear brother, we’re not even close to finished._ Sherlock smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes.

 

 

            Sherlock hated Mycroft’s house. It reminded him of the estate and he spent his time locked in the room he was lead to upon his entrance into the house. Mycroft didn’t try to get to him and simply left food at the door, figuring that Sherlock would come out when he wanted to.  Sherlock spent his time staring at the wall, ripping pages from old books and then, when the boredom made him so crazy he simply wanted to scream, he put the needle to his arm and felt himself relax, his mind going blissfully blank.

            When Mycroft hadn’t seen Sherlock in two full days, he decided it was time to investigate. The food had gone untouched and when he unlocked the door and shoved it open, Sherlock was lying on the floor with his left arm over his head, tracing patterns into his skin with a needle. Thin lines of blood slid down his pale arms and Mycroft felt bile rise in his throat. Sherlock looked entranced by the patterns and when he couldn’t take it anymore, Mycroft cleared his throat. Sherlock turned his head with a dim smile still on his face, only to let it fall into a stony mask.

            “What do you want?” he asked harshly.

            Mycroft stepped into the room and ripped the needle from Sherlock’s hand, stabbing himself in the palm and wincing.

            “That’s not sanitary,” Sherlock said mildly.

            “Well,” Mycroft drawled, “neither is shooting up, but I don’t see that stopping you.”

            “I live on the edge,” he said flatly.

            “Obviously. Come eat. We’ll…chat,” Mycroft said.

            “Sounds riveting. I’ll pass.”

            Mycroft sighed and folded himself down onto the floor. “We do need to talk about things, Sherl,” he said.

            “Do we, My?” he sneered at the name and rolled onto his side only to flop back onto his back a moment later.

Mycroft ignored the petulance and said, “Yes. We do. For instance, what are you going to do with your trust? Do you wish to return to Cambridge or would you like to create your own form of study that I can help you to cultivate? How are we going to split the estate?”

            “Oh. We’re talking about our lives. I thought you meant the drugs. Don’t you want to talk about Mummy?” Sherlock mocked.

            “All in time,” Mycroft said, falling onto his back. Sherlock was silent for a moment before he began to laugh. Mycroft rolled his head to look at his brother with a baffled expression.

            “Look at you in your three piece suit lying on the floor. The proper Englishman and you’re lying next to me with a bleeding hand in a brand new suit while you ignore work calls.”

            “I’ve told you, you’re my first priority. And as for the suit, I never liked it much anyway,” Mycroft risked a smile.

            He was rewarded with a small snort and Sherlock sitting up.

            “I don’t believe it for a second, but thank you for the words, regardless,” he said.

            Mycroft sighed and let the needle drop to the floor, sitting up as well.

            “What happened to the brother who trusted me?” he asked.

            “He lived with Mummy for a long time then went to a school where life tortured him. His mind ran ahead of him and no one understood. Then, when it got so bad, Mummy came and whispered lies in his ear that almost sounded like truth for the first time in 14 years. It happens,” Sherlock said with a shrug.

            Mycroft frowned. “What did Mummy tell you in the end?”

            “Nothing I hadn’t heard a million times before.”

            “Why does it bother you so much then?” Mycroft asked.

            Sherlock shot him a glare that spoke volumes. He hadn’t expected Mycroft to notice the thought, let alone voice it. Sherlock stayed resolutely silent until Mycroft poked him in the side.

            “Sherl,” he said when Sherlock yelped, “why does it bother you now?”

            “I always thought I was the annoyingly stubborn one,” Sherlock said mostly to himself before turning his bright eyes on his brother, “but if you must know, it bothers me because now she’s dead. All those lies and terrible things she said are gone and in the middle of hearing them tell me she was dead I realized I had never told her I loved her and I don’t remember her ever telling me, either. Isn’t that sad? I can say with pure honesty that I believe father loved me but I can’t say that she ever did in the time I remember her. I never told my own mother I loved her and when I thought about it more, I never felt that way for her. I didn’t call for her at night when I needed someone. I didn’t listen when she told me to get dressed. I didn’t hug her. The only person in my life I ever remember loving is you and even that is tainted now by something it shouldn’t be. Something I know I can’t control. So I let it bother me for the first time in my life and I let Victor sell me drugs and take my body in return because isn’t that easier than wanting something I’m not sure I can ever truly have?”

            Mycroft was stunned by the flow of words and he simply stared at Sherlock while they sunk in. Sherlock gave him a twisted smile and flopped back so his head landed with a thunk that was audible against the hard wood floor.

            “See? You can’t even say I’m wrong. She didn’t love me, she lusted after my attention. I never would have known how different those two things could be without you and now you’re staring at me like you’re afraid of me. I really shouldn’t be surprised; everyone seems to be afraid of me. Or they hate me. Isn’t that a funny distinction? Lust and love, hatred and fear. All so close together. Sentiment. Caring isn’t an advantage, My, maybe it never was,” Sherlock sounded heartbroken and once more Mycroft felt he had failed his brother in nearly every way possible.

            He moved to lean over Sherlock so quickly Sherlock jumped and their foreheads brushed against one another before he lay still. Mycroft had his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and he stared down at Sherlock. Bright eyes in a pale face blinked up at him and he glanced down at Sherlock’s left arm where the bloody designs were drying into cracked swirls.

            “Caring is our advantage. I’m sorry I ever made you feel like I wasn’t there for you. I’ve been incredibly busy and no, I’m not saying that as an excuse, it is simply how it is. All the lies Mummy told you, they were to keep you and I can’t promise you she loved you on the day she died but she did when you were born. I was there. She looked at you like I imagine I used to look at you before thi. Like father looked at you and like you look at me when you know no one is looking. With adoration. She loved you with all her heart, then. It should bother you. It always bothered me that you never seemed upset over the things she said to you. But you can’t let any of that dictate what you do, especially with drugs and that leech Victor. Remember what I told you that Christmas? No one else is supposed to touch you, least of all someone who takes you as payment. You are so much more than that, Sherl. You always have been. As for this being something we can’t have, well, it is true we shouldn’t. It doesn’t mean we can’t. I suppose I look at you now like something more. Like something that can be taken away but is precious beyond words.”

            Mycroft wanted to say more but Sherlock rose up onto his elbows, putting his face only a breath from Mycroft’s.

            “Say that again,” Sherlock said with intensity.

            “It doesn’t mean we can’t,” Mycroft said gently.

            Sherlock’s arm snaked up and around Mycroft’s head, pulling him down so their mouths met. It wasn’t their first kiss but it was their first that was more than light brushing of mouths. This was more than a gentle hello. It was meeting in the dark. It was intimate and sinful. Mycroft thought of rich chocolate and expensive Scotch as Sherlock’s tongue touched his lips. He pressed their mouths together harder for a moment before pulling back.

            “We can try, but it isn’t going to be anything like a normal relationship. It isn’t going to be good in the sense of the word that society uses. You can’t keep using. You can’t be with me and sell yourself for that…monstrosity. I won’t have you destroying yourself Sherl,” Mycroft said, his fingers carding through Sherlock’s hair.

            Sherlock gave him a ghost of a smile. “Since when have we ever been normal, My? I don’t want normal, I just want to be with you.”

            Sherlock was so straight forward and Mycroft admired that. He worked in the government where lies were paramount and people hid the things they wanted to say behind polite smiles and idle chatter. Mycroft had learned to hide his feelings from everyone but his brother. He thought that maybe Sherlock did the same. He bent forward until Sherlock’s head was back on the floor and his forehead rested against it.

            “You have a way with words, brother-mine. Did you know that?” he said, his eyes closed and his lips curving upward.

            He felt Sherlock play his fingers along the back of his neck and he memorized the sensation.

            “I wouldn’t say that,” Sherlock said quietly.

            “I would. I did. Caring is our advantage and it always will be,” he replied.

            Sherlock’s hand found Mycroft’s heart and they both stilled as the heavy thumping tied them together.

            “Romantic,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes not leaving Mycroft’s.

            “Sentiment,” Mycroft smiled.

            Sherlock seemed to shudder for a moment before he said, “Love.”

            Mycroft felt the word rush over him. Sherlock was hurting and he was scared but he was still willing to give Mycroft everything even after all the lies their mother had spouted and all the silence he’d gotten on the other end of the phone. Mycroft felt a fierce sense of protection in that moment as well as a profound sense of relief that Sherlock only wanted to give his heart to him. No one else would know or understand. No one else could know that Sherlock’s heart was as deep as the ocean and just as full. No one else would ever understand the depth of devotion Sherlock could give if he was allowed. Only Mycroft would understand and only Mycroft should have it. He smiled with his heart in his eyes while he looked at Sherlock, lying beneath him and trusting him so much despite the past month. For the first time, he let someone else see the depth of his own emotions and he was rewarded with a blinding smile in response.

            They stayed there on the floor, side by side, not saying a word until the sun sunk below the windows and the house lay in silence. While Sherlock dozed off, Mycroft got his first aid kit and cleaned the marks Sherlock had made in his skin. Sherlock mumbled but Mycroft shushed him until he fell back into an uneasy sleep. When he was satisfied that the marks were clean and wouldn’t bleed anymore, he picked up his alarmingly thin brother and deposited him in the bed. Satisfied that Sherlock was safe and clean, he turned to leave. Sherlock caught his sleeve in his sleep.

            “Stay, My. Love you. Need you,” Sherlock slurred in his sleep state.

            Mycroft could have pulled away. He could have gone to his own room. He could have fought the intimacy that was no longer bordering on wrong but had crossed the line, but he didn’t. He slid his jacket from his shoulders and loosened his shirt before sliding into the bed beside his brother.

            Nothing happened that either of them could have voiced in the morning. There was nothing untoward. But still, when the sun rose and they woke side by side, they could both safely say there was no going back. If they had been asked why that moment changed them so quickly neither would have the words but both felt it and in the end, that was what counted.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has withdrawal and Mycroft is there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: incest as always. And, I know nothing about drug use. I'm sorry if this is wrong.
> 
> I wrote this while sick so I might go through and edit it again later if it seems to be moving too quickly.

Sherlock did return to Cambridge three weeks after his mother’s funeral but he did it with conditions. He and Mycroft discussed their choices after the funeral and the reading of the will, the moment somewhat surreal without the clink of Mummy’s glass against the couch.

            “Do you want to keep the estate?” Mycroft asked. They were sitting side by side on the couch in his drawing room, both in the suits they’d worn to the funeral.

            “I wouldn’t go near that place again if you paid me,” Sherlock said roughly.

            Mycroft laughed. “I wouldn’t need to. You have quite enough money now as it is. Speaking of which, you don’t mind the changes we made to the trust?”

            “I wouldn’t have allowed them if they bothered me,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

            “Alright. So you don’t have as much money yet, but you understand,” Mycroft said with a smile.

            “Right. So we don’t need the estate. Sell it, keep it as an investment, burn it down, I don’t care.  I believe you should hire Stanley for this house, though. He was a good butler. As for Cambridge, I would like to continue going,” Sherlock said.

            “But?” Mycroft lifted his eyebrow when it became obvious that Sherlock wasn’t going to continue speaking even though there was more to the sentence.

            “But I can’t stay there. I get too bored and if I want to stay away from…well, I can’t live there. I was hoping I could stay in our flat. Use it as a way to commute. Go to my studies then leave campus. I could live here but honestly, I hate this place,” Sherlock said with a shrug.

            Mycroft knocked Sherlock with his shoulder. “But you love me.”

            “True, but that doesn’t make me anymore inclined to live in your house,” he said with a fleeting smile.

            Mycroft kissed Sherlock on the cheek and Sherlock smiled a small smile but it stuck and Mycroft could read all of his brother’s thoughts as they ran across his face.

            “Are you going to be okay?” he asked quietly and Sherlock looked away.

            “I’m not addicted,” he said to the wall, the uneasiness on the words easy to hear.

            “You might be. It hasn’t been that long since you last had some. I’d rather we didn’t get into the mess of withdrawals blindly,” Mycroft replied.

            “Well, what are you going to do about it? You have to work. You can’t watch me every hour of every day,” Sherlock snapped.

            Mycroft rubbed his eyes as he thought. Slowly, the answer came to him and his mouth thinned before he spoke. Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

            “I can stay at the flat with you. Only for a while. Only until we’re sure you’re going to be fine,” he said slowly.

            Sherlock didn’t protest. He only nodded and let out a breath that Mycroft took to be relief. He wrapped his arms around his brother and hauled him in close.

            “We’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. We will,” he said into Sherlock’s hair.

            “Oh brother-mine, don’t you know? I never worry,” Sherlock said, exhaustion pouring from him. They had buried their mother, a woman neither of them had had much love for in the end. They were both bone tired.

            Mycroft didn’t answer and instead sunk back onto the couch, pulling Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock tucked his head under Mycroft’s chin and Mycroft curled his arms around Sherlock’s waist so his fingers rested on Sherlock’s bony hip. Sherlock sighed and Mycroft closed his eyes. The words they didn’t say seemed to pass between them and even in their funeral suits with the future looming darkly in front of them; they dozed off curled around one another.

 

            The first time Sherlock got the shakes he was, thankfully, at the flat. Mycroft, unfortunately, wasn’t. Sherlock curled himself into a ball in his closet, hoping that the tight space and dark would give him a semblance of quiet for his mind. He closed his eyes and thought cruel thoughts about his mother who had never loved him enough and mourned the father he didn’t remember. He cried out for Mycroft when the pain wracked his body and he sobbed for just one more hit when it became clear he was alone.

            Alone. The word echoed in his head. It felt like days but it might have only been hours. Sherlock didn’t make it to his studies. He didn’t know Victor waited for him. He didn’t know the school offices called Mycroft to tell him Sherlock wasn’t there and he didn’t know that Mycroft sent a friend to speak with Victor so he would no longer contact Sherlock. All Sherlock knew was that he was alone. Alone in a closet, hugging his knees so hard his fingers ached while he begged for someone to come help him.

           

            Mycroft rushed home when he got the call. He dropped everything and told his secretary to hold his calls until the next day. He knew what Sherlock missing his studies meant and if he managed to make all the lights change to his advantage on his way back to the flat, well that was only collateral damage. He ran into the flat crying out for his brother.

            Sherlock heard the calls but he couldn’t stop shaking. He banged his bare foot against the closet door to guide Mycroft to him and when Mycroft yanked open the door, Sherlock tumbled out onto the floor. His joints groaned and cracked and he shifted into a ball, pushing his fingers into his hair with a whimper.

            “Oh Sherl,” Mycroft sighed. He sunk to his knees and pulled Sherlock closer to him. Sherlock shoved him back.

            “You…left me…here,” Sherlock accused, his voice shaking.

            “I had to go to work. We talked about this,” Mycroft spoke quietly.

            Mycroft didn’t need to be dramatic like Sherlock did. He didn’t need to shout to make himself heard. He didn’t need big words to prove his point. Sherlock, the dramatic one, the one with the beauty and the brains to match curled at his feet whimpering and shaking and there was no false drama. No sense of romance or old time war stories that Sherlock so often seemed to instill. There was only his pain and his fear and his utter anguish at once again being left alone.

            “Alone,” Mycroft said, tasting the word. Sherlock nodded as he shook.

            “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Come here, I’m sorry,” Mycroft began.

            He was apologizing for everything he hadn’t done. Every moment that he’d left Sherlock alone and every instance that he could have done more. He repeated the words over and over. He didn’t notice Sherlock’s arms crawling up to his waist and holding tightly. He didn’t even notice when he brought his own hands to Sherlock’s head and began to rub his scalp. It was only when Sherlock had pulled himself to kneel in front of Mycroft that he stopped and really looked.

            Sherlock stared at his brother.

            “It’s alright. It’s alright,” he said quietly, “Without you I would have been so alone and I owe you so much. It’s alright.”

            Sherlock had always thought he was the broken one. The hurt one. The one with the raging mind and the inability to stop but he wasn’t alone. Mycroft had the same problems. The same deep scars. They both hurt and they found comfort with one another. He wasn’t alone.

            When he kissed Mycroft it was a healing touch. Mycroft made a noise in his throat and caught Sherlock’s face between his hands. Sherlock’s fingers ran along Mycroft’s neck and even though Mycroft could feel the sweat on Sherlock’s skin and could taste the desperation on his tongue, he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop running his hands along Sherlock’s face and down his arms while their mouths locked together until Sherlock pulled back.

            “It hurts,” he said breathlessly.

            “I know,” Mycroft responded, lifting Sherlock up and gently putting him in his bed, “I know, but I’m right here and I’m not going to leave until you’re okay again.”

            Sherlock looked up at Mycroft; his eyes impossibly clear as he said simply, “You can’t ever leave me.”

            Mycroft sunk down to sit on the bed and he smiled, brushing back a sweaty curl from Sherlock’s forehead.

            “No, I can’t,” he said.

            Sherlock intertwined their fingers and smiled, his eyes closing. “Good. You are my best of times and my worst of times and I don’t know how my heart would beat without you.”

            Mycroft let his heart pound as he laid down next to Sherlock. “Dickens,” he said softly, into Sherlock’s shoulder blade, “romantic.”

            He felt more than saw Sherlock smile as he said, “Always.”

            They didn’t sleep but they pretended to. Lying side by side, fingers curled around one another, they simply basked in the knowledge that they weren’t alone.

 

            It took time and it wasn’t easy. Sherlock missed studies sporadically and Mycroft always went running to help him. They handled it as best they could. Sometimes it was messy and sometimes it was cruel but in the morning, they always said they were sorry for the pain and it was enough.

When the withdrawals ceased, Mycroft spent less time at the old flat but Sherlock continued to inhabit it and moved in completely after finishing uni. They spent less time together as Mycroft reached the status he’d been hoping for without actually being Prime Minister and Sherlock threw himself into consulting work, building a name for himself. When Sherlock was 25, he met Greg Lestrade and things began to turn down a different path, the future spreading before him in a way he’d never truly expected.

 

            “Do you have Friday free? I thought I’d drop by. We haven’t had a night in, in quite some time,” Mycroft said when Sherlock picked up the phone.

            “No. I have…a job,” Sherlock sounded distracted and Mycroft cleared his throat.

            “A job? You?” he asked with surprise.

            “Don’t sound so surprised,” Sherlock huffed as something clattered in the background, “besides, it isn’t a steady job. That would be dull.”

            “Right,” Mycroft laughed.

            “This requires legwork. I know how much you despise that,” Sherlock said and Mycroft could hear the grin.

            “Quite right. And I am ignoring the implied weight comment in there because I’m a good brother. So no Friday.”

            “No. I will be at Scotland Yard,” Sherlock boasted.

            “Why?” Mycroft couldn’t help but ask.

            “Work, haven’t you been listening?” Sherlock snapped.

            “Right. Well. I suppose we’ll find another time,” Mycroft said. He had lost track of the conversation and admitted defeat to his brother’s racing mind.

            “You could stop by after,” Sherlock offered, “I won’t be sleeping.”

            “Perhaps,” Mycroft said. Sherlock hung up only a moment after and Mycroft grinned, calling in his secretary. Sherlock was excited for something and Mycroft couldn’t help but me excited for him. Excited and curios. When she entered the room he smiled a vague smile and she nodded, her pen posed over her notebook.

            “I need you to look into the DI’s at Scotland Yard. Find out which one is employing my brother. Get the case file. I won’t be in tonight, regrettably. Forward all calls to my mobile,” he said.

            She nodded without a word and ducked out of the office. He leaned back and pondered his brother’s new job and what it would mean for their life.

 

            Later in the night, Sherlock tumbled into the flat in front of Mycroft, laughing breathlessly.

            “I’m very angry with you,” he said but the smile took any venom out of the words.

            “Oh? And why is that?” Mycroft grinned in return. He put his jacket and umbrella by the door while Sherlock shrugged out of his coat.

            “You burst in on my crime scene! That was my job!” Sherlock said, flinging himself onto the couch.

            Mycroft leaned over Sherlock, one hand on the arm of the couch and the other on the back so his nose touched Sherlock’s.

            “I missed you. Is that such a crime?” he asked.

            Sherlock ran his fingertip lightly over Mycroft’s collar bone and smiled, “No, but I was solving one if you hadn’t noticed.”

            “I did. Brilliant, by the way. I knew you would make a good detective,” Mycroft said, leaning in to kiss Sherlock’s forehead.

            “And you were brilliant, making it seem like we hate each other,” Sherlock said as he hooked his hand around Mycroft’s neck.

            Their lips met for a brief kiss before Mycroft pushed back to stand.

            “Well we can’t have people thinking we’re fond of one another. That would lead to many questions we don’t need to answer.”

            Sherlock sat up with an eager smile. “You could be my arch enemy!”

            Mycroft laughed and Sherlock smiled, dazzled by the sound.

            “How quaint,” Mycroft said.

            “Oh yes,” Sherlock patted the seat beside him, “quite quaint and quite possibly the best way to avoid the question of this.”

            “This?” Mycroft asked, sinking down to sit beside Sherlock.

            “Don’t play stupid, My, it doesn’t suit you,” Sherlock scoffed with a shrug. Mycroft hugged Sherlock to his side and grinned evilly. His fingers ghosted across Sherlock’s side so Sherlock let out a burst of laughter.

            “Don’t you dare,” he warned but Mycroft only tilted his head.

            Sherlock got a head start but when the doorbell rang to signal their take out, they froze, halfway down the hall with Mycroft sitting on top of Sherlock and Sherlock pushing fruitlessly at his chest. They grinned at one another, grown men playing at being children again, and Mycroft climbed to his feet to answer the door.  Mycroft answered the door and paid for the food with cool detachment and the young man who handed over the food felt mild terror when he turned back to his car. The icy eyed man had made him nervous with his well-tailored suit and clipped tone. He didn’t hear the laughter from the flat nor did he see Mycroft wipe icing down Sherlock’s cheek at the end of the night while Sherlock protested and laughed. The young man couldn’t know the amount of love the cold man at the door had for the curling haired detective waiting in the kitchen. He couldn’t know, but that, at the end of the night, was all right.

            They found it easy to hide their relationship. Mycroft worked and Sherlock jumped from crime scene to crime scene, spending the in between times working on experiments that Mycroft indulged. When Sherlock came to him with the idea to find a new flat it was a bittersweet moment and they both said goodbye to the old flat before getting into separate cars and going their own ways. Sherlock had found Baker Street and Mycroft assisted with the rent while Sherlock looked for a flat mate. Meanwhile, they met at Mycroft’s home as much as they could to spend nights curled up and laughing together. Sherlock put aside his hatred for the giant house and stayed confined to Mycroft’s bedroom and his study.

Time had only brought them closer together and even though their schedules tended to keep them apart, they still found time to get back to one another. They didn’t have sex. They didn’t need it. Neither of them found anything lacking in their closeness and it was never mentioned beyond a brief conversation about STD’s that Sherlock needed for a case. They both found their lives quite comfortable and they’d settled into an easy pattern with one another that seemed to come from years of closeness.

            Then, Sherlock met John Watson and everything began to change. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to all the lovely readers who leave me notes of encouragement. I always look forward to them, so continue if you wish! Comments are always welcome!
> 
> And thank you to my beta's who help me to realize my mistakes while also reminding me why I love to write :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson comes into the picture.

Sherlock met John when he was 30 years old. He’d fallen into what he believed was an easy and content life until he looked up and saw John Watson. Sherlock knew what love was. He also knew what want was. He felt neither when he looked at the shorter man in the doorway but there was interest and for that, he looked twice. Mike Stamford grinned at them as if he knew what he was getting John into and Sherlock began to speak, spouting the things he knew to be true just to see how this new and interesting man would take it.

            John was floored. Up until that point he’d had a fairly normal life. He’d grown up outside of London with his parents and his sister and had become a doctor and a solider because he felt a sense of greater good. He’d gotten shot and he was bitter about it, but everyone confused that with something else entirely and maybe he was alone and bored to death with his life but it was a fairly normal one. He had never met anyone like the man in front of him and he simply stood there in confusion while the tall younger man spouted out truths he couldn’t possibly know.

            “You told him about me,” he said to Mike in the hopes that there was some semblance of normalcy in the room.

            Mike denied any prior conversations and the impossible man brought up flat mates and his worst qualities with a flourish.

            “Flat mates? Who said anything about flat mates?” John interrupted Sherlock’s tirade.

            “I did,” Sherlock began and John was amazed by the rambling that somehow made perfect sense but seemed equally crazy.

            He tried to concentrate on every word until the man began to leave the room as abruptly as he seemed to have been there. John voiced his concerns and the man got infinitely better looking when he smiled.

            “The address is 221B Baker Street and the name is Sherlock Holmes,” he winked as he swept around the corner, leaving John dumbfounded and in a room with Mike who simply smiled and said,

            “Yeah, he’s always like that.”

            John Watson felt that maybe, his life was taking a turn toward interesting for the first time in quite a while.

 

            Sherlock felt as if his day had gotten better as he took long strides down the hall. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he dialed Mycroft. He felt he needed to share his thrilling news and who better than his brother?

            “Brother, dear,” he greeted, sarcasm heavy in his voice, “I think I have found a way to save you some money.”

            Mycroft was surprised, to say the least.

            “You mean you’ve stopped ruining all that expensive lab equipment I keep buying you?” he asked, knowing full well what Sherlock was talking about. He crossed his legs and waved his secretary from his office. She shut the door behind her with a resolute click. He ignored the piles of papers in front of him in favor of the conversation he had begun with Sherlock.

            “No,” Sherlock snapped over the phone, “I believe I’ve found a flat mate. Older. Army doctor. Psychosomatic limp. Exciting.”

            His voice warmed as he spoke and Mycroft felt his interest peek. Sherlock didn’t sound excited about people unless they were dead on a slab. If Sherlock was excited by a living breathing person who wasn’t Mycroft, Mycroft needed to know everything about the person. He needed to figure out why. Sherlock wasn’t the only one with an inquisitive side, Mycroft simply indulged his differently.

            “You’re too quiet, what are you planning?” Sherlock asked suspiciously. Mycroft heard him snap something against his leg. Riding crop. Mycroft believed that Sherlock was in the middle of a case if the riding crop was any indication. Sherlock hadn’t ridden a horse in years and he hadn’t liked it very much, saying that horses were sneaky creatures. He only used the crop to abuse dead bodies and possibly to make other potential flat mates nervous.

            “I am planning nothing, stop worrying,” Mycroft assured him while he planned how to meet this doctor without Sherlock knowing.

            “I never worry,” they chorused together. Mycroft couldn’t help but smile as Sherlock sighed.

            “Fine, don’t tell me. But just know I will be very angry if you do something without telling me beforehand,” Sherlock said, sounding like he had when he was a little boy and Mycroft smiled even wider.

            “You’re always angry with me, what else is new?” he said with a small laugh.

            “This is very true. I’m in the middle of a case, I will call you later. And just know that if you do anything untoward to this Doctor Watson, I will know,” Sherlock said.

            “Of course you will,” Mycroft said mildly.

            Sherlock huffed. “Well, I am very busy, Mycroft, as you must know. I have a case to solve and Baker Street to show and many other much more important things to do than to be on the phone with you.”

            Mycroft wasn’t deterred. “You called me,” he said simply.

            Sherlock could think of nothing to say so he let out a strangled sigh and snapped, “I won’t have time to see you tonight, I am very busy.”

            “I can imagine. Maybe tomorrow night, then,” Mycroft said.

            When Sherlock hung up, Mycroft pondered their relationship. Sherlock had grown harder and more prickly as he’d gotten older. Without the drugs, he’d thrived and had honed his skills in observation and deduction, making himself something special and unique and of course, someone had noticed and enlisted his help in solving crimes. He also had a cold outer shell that Mycroft had hoped would’ve softened over the years. No one got close to Sherlock and something about that made Mycroft unbelievably sad. He worried about Sherlock constantly. Sherlock made jokes about the worry and would kiss the frown from Mycroft’s mouth when it came up. The only person Sherlock had ever wanted to be near was Mycroft. He didn’t know if he felt threatened or relieved that Sherlock had very abruptly decided that this one person might be worth his time. It wasn’t like Sherlock hadn’t shown the flat to other people but all of them were dull and somewhat rude to Sherlock and left soon after moving in. Mycroft had watched each one crumble under the pressure Sherlock oozed and had always been there for when Sherlock needed to feel wanted. He turned to his desk and began to make his plan to meet the doctor that had captured his brother’s interest, pushing his slight jealousy aside.

 

            When John met Sherlock at Baker Street he was impressed in a way that he would never voice. Sherlock was abrupt and somewhat insufferable but something about him was childlike and excited and John found that to be something new and worthy of looking into. He frowned when John seemed unimpressed by his website and he very nearly danced with joy when a strange man came to ask for help on a crime scene. When Sherlock swept from the room, John felt the weight of his inability resting on his shoulder and he yelled at Mrs. Hudson in a moment of pure anger. Only when Sherlock returned and asked about his career as a doctor did he feel a slash of hope that he hadn’t felt since he’d come back to London. When he stood and followed after Sherlock he felt his heart race in a way he had so dearly missed.

            Sherlock answered his questions on the cab ride to wherever they were going and they left John only more flabbergasted and floored by the man beside him. Sherlock moved about the scene with quick wit and grace and somehow managed to solve the questions on the woman with hardly any clues before he left as abruptly as he’d been there. He left John to find his way back and John began to walk, thinking over the words of Sargent Donovan until the payphone began to ring and he answered it.

            John found himself in a large building walking toward a man in a three piece suit who was leaning on an umbrella and standing in front of a single chair.  His life had taken an appalling turn, he found himself thinking.

            “You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that. But, you could just phone me. On my phone,” he said as he walked toward the man.

            “When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discreet. Hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down,” he gestured to the chair in front of him.

            John made a face and Mycroft made himself even more impersonal, if it were possible. He knew Sherlock would find out, but finding out after the fact would mean there would be less of an impact than having Sherlock break in during his conversation with the man his brother had suddenly found so fascinating.

            “I don’t want to sit down,” John said.

            Mycroft studied John Watson. He wasn’t remarkable. He was almost anything but. Victor had been lean and strong, overpowering in how he handled Sherlock yet this man was older, tired and in this situation, unhappy. He wasn’t seductive. He didn’t promise danger or anything exotic, he simply was. He wasn’t special yet Sherlock had brought him to a crime scene willingly. Mycroft had to sneak onto crime scenes when he wanted to see Sherlock at his best and even then Sherlock would get upset and drag him away as soon as possible. There had to be something unique about the doctor if he had drawn Sherlock to him.

            “You don’t seem very afraid,” he commented. He also wasn’t used to that. People usually feared him just from his demeanor.

            “You don’t seem very frightening,” John shot back.

            Mycroft smiled coolly. “Yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity don't you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

            John frowned even more. Whoever the man in front of him was, he had airs of importance that made John feel more annoyed than anything else.

            “I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him... yesterday,” he replied.

            “Hm and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” Mycroft couldn’t help but let some of his frustration seep into his voice but thankfully, John didn’t seem to notice it.

            “Who are you?” John asked.

            “An interested party,” Mycroft said graciously.

            “I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having,” he added after John was quiet for a moment.

            “And what is that?” John asked almost incredulously.

            “An enemy,” Mycroft said, smiling to himself though John would never see it. Sherlock would certainly say that Mycroft was his enemy when he heard about what Mycroft had done to talk to John Watson but Mycroft also hoped he’d find it clever and they could laugh about it over dinner.

            “An enemy?” John said with disbelief.

            “In his mind certainly. If you were to ask him he'd probably say his archenemy. He does love to be dramatic,” Mycroft said.

            “Well thank god you’re about all that,” John’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

            “I’d be willing to pay you a healthy sum of money to ease your way,” Mycroft said smoothly.

            “For what?” John queried.

            “Information. Nothing indecent. Nothing you wouldn’t feel comfortable giving. I just want to know how he’s doing,” Mycroft said. It was a test. Anyone willing to take money to be near Sherlock could be paid off to go away just as easily.

            “Why?” John asked, his voice hardening.

            “I worry about him. Constantly,” Mycroft said truthfully.

            When John’s phone beeped, Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. He knew it was Sherlock. When Sherlock was on a case he was single minded in the things he needed. He’d once called Mycroft to bring him a pen and had been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed when Mycroft hung up so when Mycroft went to make another call, Sherlock was still talking on the line.

 John checked his phone.

            “Am I distracting you?” he asked as John put his phone back in his pocket.

            “Not at all,” John said without warmth.

            “Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” Mycroft asked because the meeting wasn’t going as he planned. John was abrasive in a way Mycroft wasn’t used to and though he would never show it, it knocked him off stride.

            “I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business,” John glared.

            “It could be,” Mycroft allowed.

            “It really couldn’t,” John replied fiercely.

            “You’re very loyal very quickly,” Mycroft commented. Truly, he was confused. He had threatened Victor through a law official friend and the man had never come crawling back once. John Watson however, would not back down and seemed to think Sherlock was worth the hassle.

            “No I'm not. I'm just not interested,” John said with a frown.

            “Trust issues it says here,” Mycroft said, pulling out the notebook John’s therapist used. He’d acquired it earlier in the day thanks to his secretary.

            “What’s that?” John asked somewhat dangerously.

            “Could it be you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?” Mycroft asked without looking up.

            “Who says I trust him?” John countered.

            “You don't seem the kind to make friends easily,” Mycroft said easily. John looked mutinous. Something about the look reminded Mycroft of Sherlock when he had been small, refusing to take a bath and listing all the logical reasons why he shouldn’t have to bathe every day, all while Stanley stripped him down and Mycroft ran the water in the wide tub until Mycroft could lift him and dump him into the water. It was the look of someone stubborn to the core and he steeled himself for a future of battles if John Watson was to stick around.

            “Are we done?” John asked, snapping Mycroft out of his memories.

            “You tell me,” he said.

            John nodded and turned to go. Mycroft couldn’t let it end like that. Something in him needed to show this man that he was just as clever as his brother and much more dangerous especially when it came to Sherlock.

            “I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen,” he said to the man’s back.

            “My what?” John asked and the hesitancy could hardly be noticed, but Mycroft of course heard it.

            “Show me,” Mycroft said. After a moment, John Watson lifted his hand. Mycroft stepped closer and reached for John’s hand.

            “Don’t,” John said. Mycroft looked at him with a frank stare. John put up his hand again with visible annoyance. If John was already annoyed with Mycroft he wouldn’t last with Sherlock. Mycroft felt cheered by that thought.

            “Remarkable,” he said.

            “What is?” John asked.

            “Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you,” it wasn’t a question. He knew the world Sherlock inhabited. It thrilled and terrified him and he knew that already, John Watson was seeing that world.

            “What’s wrong with my hand?” John said, undeterred.

            “You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's posttraumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service—“

            “Who the hell are you?” John asked. Mycroft stayed silent.

            “How do you know that?” he tried again.

            “Fire her. She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it. Welcome back. It’s time to choose a side, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said as John turned to leave for good.

            When John got into the car once more, Mycroft turned to the therapist’s notes and began to read up on the man his brother had become interested in. He kept on reading until his phone rang and he once more had to put Sherlock from his mind and go to work.

 

            John found everything about Sherlock odd but somewhat fascinating. He also found that finding something fascinating didn’t make any less incredibly annoying.

            “What are you doing?” he asked when he walked in the door.

            Sherlock showed him the three patches on his arm and the doctor in John shouted but he subdued it to stick to the subjects at hand.

            “I just met a friend of yours,” he said after Sherlock had exhausted the subject of nicotine and was once again quiet.

            “A friend?” Sherlock sounded surprised and John amended the statement.

            “An enemy,” he said.

“Oh! Which one?” Sherlock asked, not moving from his spot on the couch.

            “Your archenemy, according to him. Do people have archenemies?” John asked.

            John didn’t see Sherlock’s fleeting smile before he replied, “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

            “Yes,” John said, inspecting the objects Sherlock kept on his desk.

            “Did you take it?” Sherlock asked.

            “No.”

            “Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time,” Sherlock didn’t sound put out and John took that to be a good thing.

            “Who is he?” John asked, turning from the window to look at Sherlock.

            “The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now,” Sherlock turned on the couch and John dismissed the mysterious man for more important things. And when he found himself running through the streets behind Sherlock Holmes, he realized he had never felt so alive.

            Which is why he raced after Sherlock when he disappeared and why he found himself shooting a serial killer from a separate building in the dark London night while Sherlock held up a poison pill and the police made their way to the scene. He couldn’t say why he cared, but he did and when he watched from the side lines as Sherlock talked to Lestrade, he felt he’d found a place to call home. Sherlock strolled over to him and asked about the gun and then, more incredibly, if John himself was okay. There was something interesting and spectacular about Sherlock and he couldn’t voice it. So instead, he called Sherlock an idiot with heartfelt annoyance that bordered on fond and he voiced another concern when he saw the man from earlier that night and told Sherlock. Sherlock seemed to take it in stride as well as they closed in, claiming to know exactly who it was.

            “So. Another case cracked. How very public spirited. Though that's never really your motivation, is it,” Mycroft said without contempt. He knew Sherlock did what he did to stop feeling bored. To use his mind and to enjoy his life as it came.

            “What are you doing here?” Sherlock asked, annoyed.

            Mycroft could feel Sherlock studying him. He knew the next time they were alone, he would be punished by pouting and excessive experiments but he couldn’t find it in himself to feel anything but curiosity about John Watson and his brother as what seemed to be becoming a formidable team.

            “As ever, I'm concerned about you,” he said.

            “Yes, I’ve been hearing about your concern,” Sherlock said, the unspoken words passing between them. _I’ve heard about them and I’m not happy. What did I say earlier?_

            Mycroft ignored the undercurrent of the words. He decided to play up their fake relationship and he said, “Always so aggressive. Didn't it ever occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

            “Oddly enough, no,” Sherlock snapped back. _I’m very angry with you, stop playing around._  Sherlock’s face gave away his thoughts and if they were alone, he would have laughed with near glee at Sherlock’s façade and tackled him until he conceded defeat. Sadly, they weren’t, so he stuck to his script.

            “We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy,” he said.

            Sherlock flinched though only Mycroft saw it. “I upset her? Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft!”

            That happened to be true in its own way and Mycroft inclined his head. John burst into the conversation in confusion.

            “Mummy? Who’s Mummy?”

            “Mother. Our mother. This is my brother Mycroft. Putting on weight again?” his voice arched.

            “Losing it. In fact.” _You git, you know that. Stop being petty._ Mycroft frowned and Sherlock grinned.

            “He’s your brother?” John asked, his voice dripping with disbelief. Though now that he thought about it, it made sense. Not only was his name ridiculous and his suit more expensive than anything John had ever known, but he had the same dramatic demeanor and subtle movements as Sherlock.

            “Of course he’s my brother,” Sherlock scoffed.

            “So he’s not…” John searched for the right word.

            “Not what?” Sherlock turned to him, putting his back partially to Mycroft.

            “A criminal mastermind?” John mused.

            “Close enough,” Sherlock shrugged.

            Mycroft huffed, “For goodness sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government.” _And I am so much more important than the Prime Minister, you arse._ Mycroft said silently.

            Sherlock grew more stony as he said, “He is the British government. When he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does for the traffic.” _And that was a joke, yet you seem to have taken it seriously._ Sherlock raised his eyebrows just a breath and Mycroft caught the hidden reply.

            John, of course, didn’t catch any of it and looked at Mycroft with a furrowed brow, “So when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned.”

            “Yes, of course,” Mycroft said.

            “I mean, it actually is a childish feud?” John seemed surprised.

            “He’s always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners,” Mycroft said, thinking of his first dinner back home and then all the happy Christmas’s after but the point he was making had nothing to do with the truth.

            “Yes…Oh god. No,” John said as he turned to go. He looked horrified and Mycroft felt that the performance had been admirable.

            He turned to his secretary as Sherlock and John walked away. He could hear parts of their conversation and he very nearly smiled at the commentary.

 “Interesting, that soldier fellow. He could be the making of my brother. Or make him worse than ever. Either way we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade 3. Active,” he said.

“Sorry sir, who?” she asked.

“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said before returning to his car.

 

He didn’t see Sherlock for a couple days after the incident with Doctor Watson so when he walked into his study to find Sherlock at his desk, he was actually surprised.

“You know, I’m very angry with you about this, still,” Sherlock said conversationally.

“I suspected as much after the deafening silence I’ve heard from you since,” Mycroft said once he’d recovered. He dropped his jacket onto the back of his arm chair as Sherlock turned to face him.

“That actually had nothing to do with me being angry and more to do with me being busy. That case was like Christmas and then we got another one and I got distracted. It was wonderful,” Sherlock said, spinning the chair with his toe.

“We?” Mycroft felt pressed to point out the word.

“Oh yes. John and I,” Sherlock said as if the word wasn’t something special.

Mycroft stared at him in surprise. The only times Mycroft could ever remember Sherlock using the word “we” was when it was in recollection of a memory that Mycroft was a part of. The word was delicate to them. They were two men who were so often alone and liked to live their lives that way and had, for many years, only ever seen the value in each other. His surprise must have shown on his face because Sherlock made an impatient noise and stood.

“Relax, My. He isn’t replacing you. Didn’t I tell you? You can’t ever leave me. I believe that goes both ways,” Sherlock said with authority.

Mycroft smiled wanly. Sherlock moved closer and put his hands on Mycroft’s hips.

“Do you like this suit?” he asked.

“What? Why?” Mycroft asked with confusion arranging his features.

Sherlock ran his palms up Mycroft’s chest and grinned. “Because I have a surprise for you and if you like this suit, I suggest you change.”

Mycroft looked uneasy and Sherlock laughed in his delight. “Don’t look so scared. Just get changed. I can tell you like it. And that charcoal does wonders for your eyes, if you must know. I know you have those old trousers you wore when we repainted the flat that one time. Wear those.”

He pushed Mycroft toward the door and turned back to whatever he had been looking at on the desk. Mycroft, knowing he had been dismissed turned to go. He hid the excitement at a surprise from Sherlock until he was partially down the hall and Sherlock called, “Hurry! I don’t want to miss it!”

He grinned to himself because something that could make Sherlock sound so happy had to be big and he changed quickly before nearly charging down the stairs to meet his brother at the door. Sherlock looked him over critically then nodded. Mycroft was uncharacteristically underdressed in old grey trousers that had paint splotches on them and an old T-shirt a past girlfriend had given him when she thought they were serious. Sherlock was still in his customary posh jacket with creased trousers and an ash grey button down shirt. He looked smart and rather beautiful and Mycroft bit his lip until Sherlock laughed.

“I don’t like these clothes. Now come on,” he said, tugging Mycroft out the glass doors and onto the small patio he hardly used.

He and Sherlock both knew there were guards along the walls and in the woods but Sherlock said carefully, “I got them to take the night off, at least back here. The ones on the street are still there, though.”

Normally, that would’ve made Mycroft angry but when he saw an old blanket lying on the damp ground and a small thermoses of what he assumed would be his favorite coffee, he only nodded with a small smile.

Sherlock walked backwards, leading Mycroft. “Just know I am very cross, but an event like this only comes once in a lifetime so I will stop being petty for this one night to do this for you. But, I will be angry again in the morning and then you’ll have to deal with all the ways I’m going to make you pay.”

As Sherlock tugged him down onto the blanket Mycroft felt the dew seep into his trousers and cool his skin.

“I have no doubt it will be an imaginative range of ways,” he said.

Sherlock kissed his throat as he settled in beside him, yanking Mycroft down so they laid side by side.

“Oh yes. I have many planned. You’re going to wish you hadn’t done it. Now look,” Sherlock said and he pointed to the sky.

The ground was wet and a little too cold for comfort but when a light flashed across the sky, he caught his breath. Sherlock had found him a meteor shower. Sherlock had remembered that Mycroft found the stars to be impossibly perfect. Sherlock had done this for him.

Sherlock leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Stars are like animals in the wild. We may see the young but never the actual birth, which is a veiled and secret event.”

Mycroft watched with wide eyes as they streaked by and he could feel Sherlock smiling against his shoulder. There was pure awe in him as he watched and finally he turned to Sherlock who smiled so fully it could have broken someone’s heart.

“Who knew that the sky was so like science? Nearly impossible to figure out and easy to forget, but I could remember this one thing for you, My,” Sherlock said softly.

“The Universe is an infinite sphere, the centre of which is everywhere, the circumference nowhere,” he said in reply.

Sherlock burrowed into his side and said, “Now look!” and pointed up to the best gift Mycroft had ever received. They watched the stars fall and part way through it, Sherlock began to talk about his cases and Mycroft laughed with him and pulled him closer so he could kiss Sherlock’s cool skin until they both grew cold and stumbled back to the house, high on their own happiness.

When Sherlock snuck out his door in the late hours of the night Mycroft fell  back to sleep cheered by the fact that they hadn’t changed and that though time aged them, some things stayed the same. Of course, he was wrong, but for one night he was joyfully sure in the set notion of his brother and the future they always shared. He dreamt of falling stars and the words of poets tumbling from his brother’s cupid’s bow mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poems Sherlock and Mycroft say at the end about stars are written by Blaise Pascal (Mycroft) and Heinz R. Pagels (Sherlock)
> 
> Thank you again for reading. Comments are welcome, especially since this is about to get complicated.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets angry. John realizes his feelings. Sherlock has some decisions to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lucky readers! i know! Two in one day! mostly it's cause this chapter wrote itself and I'm not sure how much I'll be home tomorrow so i thought I'd spoil you instead of waiting. 
> 
> LOOK! we have a rating now!
> 
> Warning! Actual incest ahead. I tried to avoid smut but it kind of just worked itself into this chapter, so if you aren't a smut person. I am sorry. 
> 
> This isn't beta'd so bear with me. All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely comments, keep them up! they keep me going! any criticism is welcome as well. i promise I won't get mad :)
> 
> Thank you all again! Enjoy!

Mycroft was filled to the brim with the annoying notion that John Watson was still around. It had been nearly a year, Sherlock was a year older and not any wiser but still, the tenacious doctor stuck around. Mycroft couldn’t voice his annoyance without sounding like a petulant child who’s favorite toy was being taken by another, so he internalized it and took it out on those he worked with. They believed him to be more of a terror then usual and many cowered in fear when he walked by.

He’d made sure he was a part of their life, going to the flat to offer jobs and even dragging Sherlock and John to Buckingham Palace to help out with a very delicate problem. Irene Adler had proved to be a formidable force that threatened to pull Sherlock’s already split attention in yet another direction, but in the end had fizzled into nothingness. Quite rightly so, Mycroft thought viciously, she didn’t deserve Sherlock Holmes any more than the Victor bloke from Sherlock’s past. Being rid of her was a blessing.

John Watson, however, didn’t share the same fate. He lived in the flat with Sherlock and spoke to Mycroft as politely as he could even as Mycroft seethed over John Watson and his knowledge of Sherlock’s eating habits (or lack thereof) and how he liked his tea. He had regrettably snapped at Sherlock at the palace because of his frustrations and couldn’t help but catalog the hurt expression when he cruelly brought up sex. It had been years and Sherlock had never once tried for anything with him. They didn’t need it, he knew, but the blow still hurt and he would make up for it later, he decided.

Except later didn’t come because of his brother’s stupidity and they fought in a way they never had before even when Sherlock managed to save the day in the very end. When he called, Sherlock hung up and when he texted John all he got were passive aggressive answers from both parties. He didn’t enjoy being the cast out and he determined it was time to let Sherlock know. It was one thing to need John for things like danger nights, but it was a whole other thing to rely on the other man to keep Sherlock happy when he was perfectly capable of doing it if only Sherlock would pick up his bloody phone.

When Sherlock left Bart’s and found his brother waiting at the curb, he was angry and Mycroft couldn’t blame him.

“Ah, brother dear, what are you doing here?” he asked his hands in his pockets and his tone clipped.

Mycroft had bought him the scarf he wore and was distracted for a moment by the color in contrast to his brother’s skin. Just because they didn’t have sex didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate the beauty of Sherlock’s form.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock drawled when Mycroft took just a moment too long in looking, “it isn’t decent to stare, is it?”

Mycroft snapped his eyes up to his brother’s face and visibly settled into himself. “Right. I’m here because we need to talk. Urgently.”

“No, I don’t believe we do,” Sherlock replied evenly. He moved to walk past Mycroft, but Mycroft grabbed his arm.

“Get in the car, Sherlock, or I will put you in it,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

Sherlock made a list of the risks before nodding curtly. Perhaps it was time to deal with the elephant in the room. Mycroft released his arm and Sherlock slid into the car. Mycroft followed and the driver moved seamlessly into traffic. It was a silent ride, both brothers wound tight.

Mycroft shoved Sherlock into his office as quickly as possible when they reached their destination and locked the door behind him. Everyone was either home for the night or at dinner and he knew there was no chance of them being caught having the intimate conversation they were going to have.

“Well, brother, you got me here so what is this about?” Sherlock reclined in Mycroft’s chair and Mycroft resisted the urge to dump him on his ass. Instead, he strolled forward until he could lean into Sherlock and glare.

“You know what this is about,” he nearly snarled.

Sherlock smirked like he had the upper hand.

“I actually don’t. Is this about Irene Adler? The case? Christmas? Or is this about John and how no matter how hard you try, he won’t go away? It must be killing you to think I have someone else close to me now. Someone you can’t disapprove of like Victor. You know he got in touch once, told me what you did. Said he thought you fancied me,” Sherlock leaned back in the chair with a luxurious stretch, “disgusting that. That’s what he said. ‘Maybe your brother fancies you. Disgusting that. Aren’t I so much better in bed?’ I had to agree there since I had nothing else to go on.”           

Mycroft hit Sherlock hard. So hard Sherlock tumbled from the chair. He sat on the floor and huffed. For a wild moment Mycroft thought Sherlock would cry but instead, he laughed.

“Very good. I’ve been waiting for it, you know. You think I can’t tell but you forget My, I know you. I know you so very well and every moment I know it kills you. It’s killing you because you don’t know. You aren’t sure if I want him. If I want him more than I want you. You look at him with murderous intent and at me with only veiled anger. As if I chose him to torture you.”

Sherlock stood and fixed his jacket with cool precision before standing in front of Mycroft so they were nearly nose to nose. Mycroft would have dwelled on the thought that he’d just punched Sherlock, but Sherlock didn’t seem deterred and so Mycroft was determined not to be as well.

“You can relax. I want you, you idiot. Haven’t I told you time and again? Just because we don’t shag doesn’t mean I don’t want you. As for John, well I can’t say he’s going anywhere. He’s wonderfully stubborn and willful, but he won’t replace you. You told me once you didn’t want anyone else to touch me and they haven’t. Don’t let your mind run away with you, brother-mine. I’m not leaving you,” Sherlock said.

The relief seeped into Mycroft but the anger didn’t leave. No one else was supposed to know anything intimate about Sherlock. No matter how selfish the thought was, it was his truth. He seized Sherlock and kissed him roughly.

Sherlock’s hands came up to tug at Mycroft’s hair and they both groaned. It had never been like this. It was usually closeness and healing and love and devotion but this was power and struggle and desperation. Mycroft wanted nothing to change and Sherlock was changing the game. They were in the middle of something new and different and when Sherlock pushed Mycroft’s jacket off, he didn’t protest but instead backed Sherlock up until he fell into the same chair Mycroft had punched him out of. He straddled Sherlock and panted into his ear as Sherlock bit at his neck, “You are mine. You always have been. No one, not some drugged up college student and not even an old army doctor will take you from me.”

Sherlock made a mmmm sound as he sucked hard at Mycroft’s throat and Mycroft moaned slightly.

Sherlock yanked Mycroft down until he was sitting flush against the lithe younger man. He smiled when Mycroft’s pupils blew wider.

“Oh dear brother, I thought you’d know by now. No one can take me just as no one can take you. Forever mine isn’t that right?” he purred.

Mycroft rolled his hips against Sherlock and Sherlock arched beneath him, gasping for a moment before speaking once more.

“It’s been a while, but I think I remember how this works,” his voice was rough and Mycroft began to peel Sherlock’s shirt from his thin frame.

“Shut up,” Mycroft said with feeling, “just shut up and kiss me.”

Sherlock arched up to meet Mycroft’s now bruised mouth and together they ripped their clothes free. It was clumsy and somewhat messy but only minutes later found Sherlock straddling Mycroft on the chair, his hands wrapped intimately around both of them. Their tongues tangled as he set a rhythm that they both thrust into. Mycroft bit Sherlock’s tongue as the pressure built and the pleasure spread into his joints. He came with a yell that Sherlock swallowed, only to be followed by Sherlock’s own grunt of pleasured surprise. When they stilled, Sherlock dropped his forehead to Mycroft’s shoulder and began to laugh softly.

“What?” Mycroft panted.

They were sticky and covered in sweat but neither moved.

“That was different,” Sherlock laughed.

“Yes, I’d say so,” Mycroft replied.

Sherlock shifted on his lap and even through the sleepy haze he felt heat spurt through him and he lost his place in the conversation for a moment.

“My?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft realized he’d missed what Sherlock had said.

“Hm?” Mycroft hummed, leaning his head back so his neck was exposed. Sherlock began to lick the sweat from the exposed skin and Mycroft shivered.

“I said, is this alright,” Sherlock sounded amused.

“Quite alright,” Mycroft replied.

“Good, because honestly, I can’t think of one valid reason why we haven’t done this sooner,” Sherlock said.

“Would’ve saved me a lot of hassle,” Mycroft conceded and Sherlock let out a full laugh so Mycroft looked at him.

“You were so…normal for once. It was amusing. So jealous of John and then of that Adler  woman. As if anyone is as fascinating as you. As if I’d ever want to be with anyone else. It was such fun to watch,” Sherlock chuckled.

Mycroft tipped his legs and Sherlock nearly tumbled to the floor. He gasped in surprise and grabbed on to Mycroft’s shoulders with a slight scowl.

“Relax,” Mycroft drawled, “I’d never let you fall.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened. “That is an idiotic thing to say,” he said.

“And why is that?” Mycroft wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, holding him firmly. Sherlock was naked and plastered against him. Only a true idiot would throw him to the floor now.

“Because, it seems I fall every time I look at you,” Sherlock said so softly Mycroft barely heard him.

Mycroft sucked in a breath. Sherlock’s eyes shot to the floor beyond Mycroft’s shoulder and Mycroft pulled him tighter against his chest.

“I never figured you for a romantic,” he said when he’d caught his breath. Sherlock’s eyes shifted back to Mycroft’s face.

“And I never figured you for one as well, but here we are,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft buried his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, tasting the sweat as well as the London air on his brother’s skin.

“I love you,” he murmured.

Sherlock’s fingers ran through his hair and he felt the light kiss on his shoulder before Sherlock replied, “I know.”  There seemed to be nothing else to say that wouldn’t be superfluous and so they just took comfort in the other’s breathing until they deemed it time to stand.

            They got cleaned up and Sherlock smiled in near embarrassment when his fingers left a sticky residue on Mycroft’s cheek. Mycroft only laughed and used hand sanitizer to clean it away.

            “Is it bad that I don’t want to leave?” Sherlock asked as he stood by the door.

            “No, because I don’t want you to go,” Mycroft answered honestly.

            Sherlock turned to him, his face an unreadable mask. “You told me once you didn’t think you wanted me to grow up. What do you think now?”

            Mycroft thought about the question and smiled. “I don’t think you ever did and I am proud of you every day for that.”

            Sherlock smiled in return. “You also said once you wouldn’t change what happened for anything.”

            It wasn’t a question and it didn’t need to be. Mycroft nodded. “I did say that.”

            Sherlock said quickly, “Good.” He turned to go and Mycroft called to him in a moment of desperation. Something else needed to be done. To be said. Mycroft didn’t know what it was that made him desperate to keep Sherlock close, but whatever it was, it needed to be taken care of.

            “Sherl?”

            Sherlock turned to face him once more. Mycroft strode forward powerfully and backed Sherlock against the door. He took Sherlock’s face in his hands and kissed him, a hard, claiming kiss that Sherlock fought back in until Mycroft retreated with a laugh.

            “That wasn’t meant to start us up all over again. I just…” he couldn’t find the words but Sherlock only nodded.

            “I know. I have to go. John is probably wondering where I am. If I don’t get back soon, he’ll call Lestrade and then we’ll all be in trouble,” Sherlock said with a twisted smile. Mycroft released him and watched him walk out the door.

            As he left Mycroft couldn’t help but feel that in some ways, John was taking Sherlock away. Sherlock spoke John’s name so easily, as if it were part of his daily vocabulary. Even on their best days, he didn’t say Mycroft’s name like that. He couldn’t. People would talk if they ever acted in public like they did alone. Closeness was one thing but what they were would be obvious even to the untrained eye. With John, Sherlock was himself even in front of the whole world and John still liked him. John still followed him. John even managed to make him act civilized in situations no one else would ever hope to. Sherlock might never plan to leave Mycroft but Mycroft could see the end. John Watson wasn’t someone who would go away and though the jealousy had ebbed and the anger had seeped from his bones, he still felt a weary sense of foreboding that everything he loved was fragile and for once, nothing he could do would fix it. He collapsed in his chair when his phone rang.

            “Sherl?” he said in confusion when he saw who was calling.

            “Stop over thinking. Think about me. I love you,” Sherlock said quickly, then hung up.

            Mycroft looked at his phone and then smiled. So maybe it was coming to an end, but it wasn’t over yet. Mycroft Holmes was not someone who gave up easily and when the prize was Sherlock, there was nothing he wouldn’t do.

 

            John, as Sherlock had predicted, was worried.

            “Where have you been? I texted you over 3 hours ago and you said you were at Bart’s and would be home soon,” John fretted.

            John would never say he fretted, the word sounding like something an overbearing mother or girlfriend did, but he fretted all the same.

            “It is soon,” Sherlock replied, collapsing onto the couch with childlike zeal.

            “It is not soon, Sherlock. Soon is a half hour, maybe even a full hour but not over 3 hours,” John argued.

            He didn’t know why he bothered. Arguing with Sherlock Holmes was like arguing with a wall. A very ostentatious and preposterous wall.  He rolled his eyes when Sherlock only hummed to show he’d heard him.

            “You are ridiculous,” he said but he couldn’t keep the warmth from the words.

            Whatever annoyance he felt for Sherlock Holmes was outweighed by the overflowing joy and awe he felt daily that someone so brilliant and larger than life wanted anything to do with him at all. Sherlock had turned his world from gray and ugly to bright and interesting in one single day and he kept doing it every day since.

            Sherlock looked over at him for a moment before settling his eyes on his skull. A ghost of a smile flitted across his face.

            “And you find me engaging, so what does that say about you?” Sherlock replied.

            “I’m an idiot,” John said in response.

            “Obviously, but the best kind, don’t you think?” Sherlock said with laughter in his voice.

            “What put you in such a good mood?” John asked.

            Sherlock turned and the light played on his cheek, showing a bruise forming. “I got into a fight. It was marvelous,” Sherlock said, the light playing in his eyes.

            John rolled his eyes. There were no cuts and Sherlock was speaking fine so there was no mouth damage. “Only you would find that marvelous.”

            Sherlock shrugged with a small smirk and John picked up the book he’d dropped when Sherlock had walked in the flat. The only real difference between two hours prior and now was that John would actually read the book now and when he stood to make tea, he made two cups instead of one, pushing the second into Sherlock’s hand until long fingers curled around it and the bright eyes of his flat mate flicked up in a silent thank you. He felt into his contented role as Sherlock’s backdrop and found he didn’t mind when Sherlock picked up the violin. He played beautifully until John’s eyes began to close.

            “John,” a warm hand on his shoulder shook him, “John, go to bed you’re falling asleep.”

            “You’re still up,” John half slurred.

            He could hear the smile as Sherlock replied, “yes, but I’m not the one nearly passed out in an armchair. Come on. Up you go. Need your strength for the morning. Surgery and all.”

            “How’d you know that?” John asked, struggling to his feet.

            He caught Sherlock’s smile before his eyes closed again and he forced them to open so he could watch Sherlock reply,

            “I know everything John. Don’t worry.”

            “I never worry,” John said, trudging toward the stairs. He was far too involved in his own mind to see Sherlock twitch at the words. He was too focused on the hope that Sherlock was telling a lie in knowing everything, because if he knew everything, he would know that John was a little bit in love with him and that would be disastrous.

            “G’night Sherlock,” he called sloppily down the stairs and was answered with a long and sweet string of notes from the violin.

 

            Sherlock had a choice to make and he knew it. As he gently played his violin he thought about his options in the hopes of discovering the answer in the music. When the sun began to rise he finally put down his bow and collapsed into his bed. In his dreams, Mycroft tickled him until he hiccupped champagne bubbles and John stood behind them, watching over them all with the same calm he had every day. Choices were never easy, Sherlock was discovering and love was the worst factor of all.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reichenbach. That's all.

“You machine!” John had shouted in Sherlock’s face. He wished he could take it back. He wished he could rewind. Pull Sherlock from the ledge and stop him from saying all those horrible things. Stop him from saying he was a fraud. John knew he wasn’t. John knew, but still he had watched Sherlock jump from the building with tears in his eyes and had grasped the wrist of his best friend, of the man he loved, and felt nothing. John wanted to take it all back but he couldn’t. He sat alone in Baker Street and stared at the empty chair in front of him.

 

Mycroft had screwed up and he knew it. It was far worse than Sherlock and Irene Adler. He had given too much information to Moriarty and it had hurt his brother beyond repair. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do to fix it. He ignored his work and leaned on his desk, thinking, when his phone rang.

“Sherl?” he said automatically, not even checking the number.

“No…Mycroft…It’s me. It’s John,” his voice sounded tinny.

“John? Where is Sherlock? I’ve been calling him but he won’t pick up,” Mycroft asked. John sighed, the sound ending on a choked sob.

“He’s dead. He…jumped from the roof of Bart’s. He’s dead, Mycroft. He’s dead,” John said raggedly.

Mycroft had ice in his veins. Everyone always thought so; always said so. He’d never believed it until that moment. His first thought was a question of why no one had called him, but then it sunk in. He thought he’d dropped the phone, but John was still talking. Not that it mattered. Not that any of it mattered. He picked up a large globe paperweight and threw it. It slammed into the wall with a resounding crack and John’s voice came back into focus. His secretary banged on the door asking if he was okay but he ignored her.

“Mycroft? Are you alright?” John sounded worried and Mycroft nearly laughed.

“No, I’m not. Thank you for this…news. I must go. I’m very busy,” he found himself saying.

John, alone in Baker Street, stared at the phone before sputtering, “Your brother is dead and you’re busy?”

Mycroft sighed on the other end and said slowly, “I have to make arrangements.”

John wanted to say he’d do it. He wanted to be the one to lay Sherlock to rest. Mycroft didn’t know his brother, barely even saw him. Mycroft was the butt of their jokes and he knew it. John felt a flicker of a memory from when they had gone to Buckingham Palace and if he hadn’t been so cold, so frozen, he would have smiled. He pushed the thought away and concentrated on the conversation.

“Right,” he said coldly, “Well let me know when you plan it all.”

“John…”Mycroft trailed off.

John didn’t know what Mycroft could possibly say and it seemed Mycroft didn’t either because he cleared his throat and said,

“Yes. I’ll do that. Goodbye, John.”

John didn’t hang up and instead listened to the dial tone until his hand went numb. When it dropped into his lap he hardly noticed. Sherlock Holmes was dead and there was nothing left to care about. He continued to stare at the chair.

 

Mycroft went home shortly after John’s phone call. He walked into his empty house and felt nothing. Dropping his jacket and his tie on the floor, he made his way up the stairs to his room. He opened the door and felt the unending nothingness of his future. Crumpling to the floor he felt tears run down his cheeks. For the first time in years, Mycroft Holmes cried.

After over an hour of wallowing, Mycroft decided it was time to look into his brother’s death. It seemed so quick and so messy. Sherlock was not one for loose ends. He found himself in his study looking over camera footage. What he saw surprised him and he began to smile.

 

Sherlock was driving Molly crazy. She’d taken him home after everything had cleared up at Bart’s and he had spent the whole hour in her flat bouncing off the walls fretting about John. He looked like a wild animal and finally she went outside just to get some air.

“Good evening Miss Hooper,” a cool voice greeted her. She jumped and turned to see a well-dressed man standing in front of her. He would have looked pleasant if it wasn’t for his cold eyes.

“Good evening,” she replied nervously.

“I’m looking for my brother, have you seen him?” he asked, taking a step toward him.

“Who is your brother?” she backed toward the door.

“Sherlock Holmes, of course,” he smiled.

“He’s dead,” Molly said quickly.

“I’d heard that, yet, what’s odd is that there is footage of you leaving Bart’s after his accident with a man who looks suspiciously like him. Do you mind if I take a look and make sure maybe we’re confusing Sherlock with someone else?” Mycroft smiled predatorily.

Molly knew she couldn’t say no. She’d heard of Sherlock’s brother she’d simply never met him. He was not the type of man anyone said no to. She nodded, the color high on her cheeks as she pushed open the door.

Sherlock was looking down when Molly entered the room.

“Ah Molly, I thought you’d be gone longer. You seemed quite cross,” he said.

“Um,” she mumbled.

“Dear brother, I do believe you are very much alive,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock’s head jumped up. He looked ragged and tired. There was blood on his forehead and his eyes seemed drained of their usual brightness.

“My?” he nearly whimpered. It was the invitation Mycroft didn’t know he was waiting for.

Mycroft fell to his knees in front of Sherlock, his resolve gone. He forgot about Molly. He forgot to act like he would in the presence of company. He lunged forward, the movement jerky and ungraceful. His arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist and his head curved into Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s arms came up automatically and he patted Mycroft’s shoulder in surprise.

“My? What are you doing here?” he asked when the shock had worn off. Molly would have sworn he turned his head into his brother’s hair, but she wasn’t totally sure.

“You fucking idiot. You git. How did you think I would not be here?” Mycroft said.

“Language,” Sherlock said automatically.

“You jumped off of a building. I saw the recording. I also saw you leave. What are you playing at?” Mycroft asked.

“I had to save them,” Sherlock said simply. He pushed Mycroft back but only far enough to look into his face. For a second, he turned his gaze to Molly and she felt him asses her. She didn’t know what he was looking for, but he must have gotten it. He looked back at Mycroft and brought his hands up slowly to place them on Mycroft’s face. Molly felt a sudden rush of uneasiness. It was a touch that one would give to a lover, not to a sibling. She fidgeted.

“I had to give them the chance to live, My. I had to. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I scared you. He knew everything about me. He made up lies and made people doubt me. I couldn’t work my way out of it after he killed himself. I had to jump. It was a plan I was hoping I wouldn’t have to use. I’m sorry,” Sherlock stroked Mycroft’s cheek as he spoke.

“You promised too, remember?” Mycroft said on a whisper.

“I know. I know. I’m not going to leave you. I was planning to come back to you. I would never leave you alone,” Sherlock said.

Molly felt as if she was intruding on something intimate. She desperately looked around to find a place to escape. Her flat was small and it was impossible to reach the bedroom since they were in the way.

“Molly helped me,” Sherlock said, bringing Molly back to the conversation. Mycroft turned to look at her.

“Miss Hooper, thank you,” Mycroft said, “thank you for keeping him safe.”

“I keep myself safe,” Sherlock said, affronted.

Mycroft and Molly ignored that.

“Are you going to tell John?” Molly asked carefully.

Both Mycroft and Molly turned to Sherlock who looked wild once more. “No! No, I can’t. Not until everything Moriarty had planned is destroyed. I can’t chance it.”

Mycroft felt something in his chest harden. “You love him, don’t you?” he asked.

It wasn’t meant to sound dangerous or sad but it managed to do both. Sherlock looked at him with anguish. He rested his forehead on Mycroft’s before answering.

“Yes. But it isn’t the same.”

Molly watched with wide eyes as the pieces fell into place. All of the times Sherlock had been rude about his brother had been fake. Everything about their public relationship was fake. Sherlock looked at Mycroft with so much love it nearly hurt and Mycroft looked back with adoration. She was almost jealous just watching them.

“You two are together?” she asked tremulously, hoping to catch up on what was going on in her own flat.

“For quite some time now,” Mycroft answered without turning, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread that fact around.”

She shook her head, denying she would ever do something like that.

“It isn’t the same, My,” Sherlock pleaded.

“I never said it was. It doesn’t change that you love him,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock sighed and looked away. Slowly, he handed Mycroft his phone.

“I recorded our conversation. I have no doubt your people have already found him. Do what you think is right with all of this but I need to hunt it down. All of it. I need to stop the threat before anyone is killed.”

“Who else did he threaten?” Mycroft asked.

“Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade,” Sherlock answered quickly.

“But John was the first,” Mycroft said softly.

“Yes,” Sherlock said just as quietly.

Mycroft rocked back onto his heels and looked at the ceiling. Sherlock let out a mewling noise and scrambled to grab onto Mycroft’s jacket.

“Look at me,” he said desperately.

Mycroft let his eyes rest on Sherlock. Sherlock was unhappy, he was upset and he was in misery. He stared at his living, breathing brother.

“I love you. Remember when I first told you? Remember that night? The party? Mummy was so drunk but so happy she didn’t even notice when we left for good? It snowed and I told you that you looked dashing in the snow and you pretended you weren’t pleased but of course I knew. I told you I wouldn’t change any of this for the world. I still believe that. I’m sorry, I really am, but don’t leave me,” Sherlock’s voice broke and Molly felt her eyes well up with tears.

She had never imagined that Sherlock would have such deep feelings for anyone but John. She’d always assumed they were in love but never said anything. While she watched Sherlock with his brother, she saw how wrong she was about Sherlock’s heart. He looked at Mycroft with heartbroken love and Mycroft sighed and nodded slowly. She knew people doubted either of them felt anything for anyone. She wished she could show people what she saw looking at them together.

“I promised I’d never leave you, Sherl. And Holmes’s don’t go back on promises,” he said with the ghost of a smile.

There was exhaustion in both of their faces and Sherlock clung to Mycroft with a dry sob. Molly turned away. She heard a scuffle of sound and forced herself to stare at the wall when it sounded like someone fell. There was a light gasp and the sound of mouths meeting. She opened her eyes wider and stared at the ceiling as the sound of clothing rustling reached her. Only when there was a light moan did she turn.

“Okay, that’s enough! This is my flat and I will not tolerate this!” she said shrilly, her face pink.

They both looked up. Mycroft had fallen onto his back and Sherlock was lying on top of him. Mycroft had his throat bared and Sherlock’s mouth was resting against it. They froze and then Sherlock began to laugh, burrowing his face into Mycroft’s chest.

“I apologize for our behavior,” Mycroft said formally. The effect was lost on Molly since he was lying on her floor with Sherlock laughing on top of him. She began to giggle.

“This is utterly ridiculous,” Sherlock said. He backed off of Mycroft and stood, holding out his hand. Mycroft let Sherlock help him up, putting themselves back into the moment and the dire circumstances for which Sherlock had jumped.

“Right. What do you need me to do?” Mycroft asked. He brushed back Sherlock’s hair, unable to help himself.

“Give me the freedom to do what I need to do,” he said.

Mycroft nodded. He knew how stubborn Sherlock was. There was no way of talking him out of doing it himself. The only thing he could offer was help.

“John could help you, maybe,” Molly said hesitantly.

“What I need from you, Molly, is to watch over John and Lestrade. Make sure they’re alright,” Sherlock said as if she hadn’t spoken. “I don’t want to include you in this anymore than I need to. Just make sure they’re safe and okay. Mycroft, maybe she could report to you?”

Mycroft nodded. In that moment it was Sherlock’s world and they were working in it.

“You have to leave, don’t you?” Mycroft asked.

There was a heavy silence.

“I’ll…be downstairs,” Molly said quickly before ducking out of the flat.  She escaped to the front of her building, sucking in deep breaths.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said looking Mycroft right in the eye.

Mycroft sighed. “I don’t want you to do this.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into what could have been a smile in another circumstance. “I know.”

“But you’re going to anyway,” Mycroft finished.

Sherlock stepped closer to him. “I have to.”

“I could get it done for you. No legwork,” Mycroft tried.

“You know why I need to do this myself, My. I’m not leaving you. I’ll be in London for most of it, I think. I just need to do this myself,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft closed his eyes. When they were younger, it was easier. He could give Sherlock a book, tickle him or drag him out to the park to get reckless ideas out of his head but Sherlock was an adult now and it was never that easy. He felt Sherlock kiss his neck and up his chin. Felt cool lips that tasted slightly metallic touch his own and move to his cheek. Sherlock was apologizing when it should have been Mycroft.

“Sherl…I have to tell you something…” he said.

Mycroft sat Sherlock down and told him about John coming to him with the files. He told Sherlock about Moriarty and how he’d done it. As the light seeped from the sky, Molly didn’t come back and Sherlock listened to his brother explain the worst betrayal he’d ever known until he simply couldn’t anymore. It was around 6 in the morning when Sherlock walked out of the flat and wasn’t seen by Mycroft again for a year.

 

John Watson had done nothing wrong. He had trusted Sherlock and that alone seemed to have become his downfall. He ate lunch with Molly Hooper and went to the pub with Lestrade but through all of it he felt dead inside. For a year, he felt nothing. For a year, each night he put his gun in his mouth and wondered if it would be the day. For a year there was nothing. Then, suddenly, on a street corner in Cardiff, there was hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be coming with slower updates for these last two chapters since the end is taking a while to figure out and I'm working on other fics. If you like my stuff, I'd love it if you would check out my other pieces and leave comments! I love hearing from everyone. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all of the kudos and comments! You're all awesome!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes home. Messes ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for being patient with this! I've been finishing up school finals and working on another fic. If you're into Repo! check it out :) 
> 
> but here we are! the next installment! 
> 
> I had allergy meds in me when I wrote this so I apologize for any bad spelling or weird plot jumps. I read it over but it's unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own.

John was on a date in Cardiff when he saw the swirl of a dark coat on the street corner. It had been a year. He thought he’d gotten over his mind playing tricks on him. When he stared, Mary pulled on his arm.

“John?” she looked up at him, her sweet face creased with worry.

“It’s nothing. I just thought I saw someone,” he confessed.

“Well it happens. Just yesterday I thought I saw my husband but he’s been dead for two years!” she said cheerfully.

“Yes, it happens, doesn’t it,” John said with a sad smile.

Mary peered up at him. “Do you want to go home? I don’t mind. I know it feels as if you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

He sighed and she nodded. There was something amazing about Mary where she took everything John needed in stride and let it happen without anger or spite. They had been dating for over a three months and never had she shouted for him ignoring her or staring into space. They fought over domestic things like mugs too close to the edge of the table or which one of them forgot to Hoover, but when it got to the big things like their pasts, they were both infinitely patient. She took his arm and they turned to get back on the bus.

 

Sherlock hadn’t actually been in Cardiff.  He had been in front of 221B staring up at the empty space.

“She lives here with him now. Moved in last week,” Molly told him.

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock said. He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry. He was upset but there was no anger in it. He hadn’t told John he loved him. He hadn’t ever made a move in that direction. There was no sense in anger when John deserved that happiness.

“Are you alright?” she asked anxiously.

Sherlock was silent.

“Right. Do you need me to do anything for you?” she tried again.

Sherlock gave her a wane smile. In the year he’d been gone they had grown somewhat closer as friends though Molly wasn’t sure that was a word that explained Sherlock well.

“No. Thank you, Molly, but no. I need to do all of this on my own,” he replied.

She patted his arm. “I have to go back to work. Call me if you need me.”

She turned and walked away but he didn’t notice. He was too busy staring up at the empty window.

 

Mycroft hadn’t faired well in the year Sherlock was gone. Sherlock left him messages on his progress and requested help when the year began to wind down and he was close to finished. He never called when Mycroft was there and he didn’t bother to tell Mycroft he was back in London. Molly Hooper did that.

“Hello?” Mycroft answered the unknown number. It was an unusual occurrence that he didn’t know who was calling him or why.

“Mr. Holmes?” Molly’s worried voice reached him.

“Ah. Ms. Hooper. How nice to hear from you. Has something happened to John?” he asked.

“No. No. I just know he didn’t tell you…Sherlock is back in London. He finished what he was doing. I think he’s come home. I just thought, well I thought you should know.  I think he’s going to see John,” she said, anxiety lacing her voice.

Mycroft stopped any movement and visibly settled himself.

“Thank you Ms. Hooper. I am grateful for the news,” he said stiffly.

“He missed you,” she said quickly, “he won’t say it, but he did.”

He closed his eyes before responding, “Goodbye, Ms. Hooper.”

When he hung up, he stared up the wall for a full 5 minutes before standing, donning his jacket, and sweeping out into the London streets. It was time to meet his brother again and put a stop to the feud.

 

“John, would you like some tea?” Mary called up the stairs to John’s bedroom. They’d left Sherlock’s room as it was and both of them spent their time in John’s room most of the time.

“Sure,” he called back. He was changing into something that didn’t smell like city.

When Mary heard feet on the stairs, she turned with a smile. She didn’t realize they were going up the stairs and not down.

“Well that was-“ her voice cut off when she took in the tall man in front of her who scowled down his nose. She screamed.

 

John tumbled down the stairs at Mary’s scream only to find her bending over picking up the pieces of his broken mug, her hands shaking.

“Mary?” he said.

“John, I cannot believe you don’t still have my tea,” an all too familiar voice called from the kitchen. John froze with his hand part way to Mary. He stared.

“That was expensive as you must know. And yet it seems you just threw it away,” Sherlock said, coming around the table so he could see John.

John was pale. He stared with wide eyes. Mary knelt, the broken mug pieces in her hand.

“It’s…um…it’s in the cabinet. Not in the tea box. We…um, moved it,” she said shakily.

“Right. Of course. Sentiment,” Sherlock nodded, ignoring their faces.

He poured the hot water into a mug and dug out his tea. John hadn’t moved. Sherlock stood in front of him and shoved the hot tea into the smaller man’s hands. John trembled.

“Sherlock?” he gasped.

Mary hadn’t moved from the floor and she watched the men stare at each other. She’d known John had loved Sherlock. He hadn’t said it in so many words, but it had been obvious. He had loved the detective as more than a friend. As more than even a lover. Mary had been envious of the bond John had felt with Sherlock. She’d loved and adored her husband but she had never felt as if their souls tied together. She thought that maybe, John and Sherlock were soul mates. Looking up at them, she wished she could leave and let them have their moment but it was all too surreal.

“Yes, John.”

“You’re…alive?” John’s voice arched incredulously.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied, unable to stop the snapping tone.

John’s grin trembled but it was a grin nonetheless.

“You git,” he said with feeling.

“I couldn’t let you get killed,” Sherlock said.

“Yes. Both Lestrade and your brother told me about that. They said you died a hero. You died, Sherlock. Died. We buried you. Mycroft hardly let me be a part of it at all,” John said, disgusted.

Sherlock took a step forward and John put his tea on the table. “Yes. Then you know. I did what I had to do!”

“You did what you thought you had to do. We could have figured it out together. God, Sherlock! I loved you, you know that right? I loved you and you made me watch you….” John looked away. Mary placed a trembling hand on his ankle and he pulled away roughly. For the first time since they’d been together, Mary felt truly hurt by the movement. She’d understood his feelings and had allowed it without letting it hurt, but in that moment her heart broke. He’d moved away from her in his moment of need.

“You never said,” Sherlock’s voice dropped.

“I didn’t think I had to, to be honest,” John replied snippily.

All he saw was Sherlock’s smile before he was crushed in a tight hug. Sherlock was bony and it nearly hurt to be held so tightly, especially after a month of a soft woman, but his arms came up and he gripped Sherlock back, his hands knotted in the coat.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said into his shoulder, “I’m sorry for what I did to you. I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t okay and both of them knew it so John said nothing and rubbed Sherlock’s back in what he hoped would be a soothing manner. There would be time for apologizes and forgiveness.

Mary had moved back so she was sitting against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees. She’d thought Sherlock was gone. That she would heal John and they would move on together. With Sherlock back, everything changed. She waited.

John leaned back after the hug had become long and somewhat awkward. He opened his mouth to speak but Sherlock had other plans. He kissed John.

John pushed him away and stared. Sherlock looked back at him helplessly.

“I just wanted to see,” he said, “I thought I’d never get the chance again.”

John pulled him back after searching his face and kissed him harder, their mouths moving together. Mary couldn’t look away. It was like watching her life fall apart. At least, it was until Mycroft Holmes came up the stairs. When he knocked his umbrella on the door he hid his surprise as he watched his brother kiss his best friend. He became even more stoic and radiated annoyance. Mary looked up at him with shock and horror on her face. He was sympathetic to the emotions since he felt them himself. He knocked more forcefully on the door and Sherlock pulled back.

“Don’t you knock?” he asked irritably.

“I did,” Mycroft said mildly.

John stepped away from Sherlock and seemed to snap back into the moment.

“Mary,” he said, turning to look at her but she only held up her hands. His eyes softened and showed his sorrow and confusion. She didn’t move.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted, “I did wonder when you’d come home. I did think you’d at least tell me. I have been funding this little trip of yours.”

John looked furious but Sherlock ignored him. “Why brother, when have I ever told you anything?” _You lied to me. You did this to me. Why should I trust you again?_

“Never, it seems but this is a bit more than the usual, don’t you think?” _I said I was sorry. Are you going to torture me forever?_

“Wait, you knew?” John snapped at Mycroft.

“Of course he knew. After his little tell all with Moriarty this is the least he could do,” Sherlock snarled.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice low and threatening.

“I. Um. I’m going home,” Mary said abruptly. “John, call me when. Well, call me when you’re ready.”

As quickly as she’d been in John’s life, she walked out and John could only watch.

“You should go too, John,” Mycroft said as pleasantly as the moment would allow.

“No. I want John here,” Sherlock fought. John planted himself visibly. Mycroft sighed.

“I really don’t think you do, brother-mine,” he said meaningfully. Sherlock faltered.

“John. Go be with Mary. I’ll call you when this is over,” Sherlock said finally.

John looked at him with disbelief. Sherlock wouldn’t meet his eye and John sighed noisily.

“When your snit is over, call me so we can discuss this. Until then, I’ll be out walking around,” John said.

“Go to Mary, John. She needs you,” Mycroft said almost smugly.

“You arrogant arse,” John said tightly, “My life is none of your business and who I choose to be with is none of your business either.”

“It is when you choose to be with Sherlock,” Mycroft replied.

John shook his head and grabbed his coat angrily. “Right. Just call me when you’re done with whatever this is.”

With the last word, John stalked out of the flat. When the door slammed shut, Sherlock turned roughly from his brother.

“Are you intent on ruining everything, or is it just my love life?” Sherlock snarled.

“I don’t wish to ruin anything. I just want to talk to you and I thought you might not want John present for the conversation,” Mycroft said.

John, unbeknownst to them, was standing at the base of the stairs listening. He wasn’t about to be left out of whatever Mycroft and Sherlock needed to discuss.  There had been a time where he would have trusted them both to have their conversation alone, but those days ended when Sherlock dove off a roof and Mycroft had apparently known about it.

 

“Did you know he called me? Your John. He called me to tell me you were dead. You didn’t even bother to tell me. I’m lucky I can compartmentalize or you might be dead simply out of stupidity!” Mycroft said roughly.

John had never heard Mycroft sound so worried. He leaned on the wall.

“How was I to know the morgue wouldn’t call you? I assumed it would be like Mummy when her will was found,” Sherlock shrugged.

“You…have a will?” Mycroft asked in a strangled voice.

“Of course. I made one when I started this job. It isn’t the safest, is it?” Sherlock sounded affronted.

“That’s very adult of you,” Mycroft said.

“I had to grow up somewhat,” Sherlock said. Mycroft smiled at that and even John could hear the slight sense of mollification in his tone.

“Yes, but only somewhat. You’re still a little git,” Mycroft said with real warmth.

“I’m still cross with you,” Sherlock said but there was no bite in the words.

“I didn’t expect you not to be. It has been a year, though. Haven’t you…” Mycroft trailed off. He turned and looked at the wall, not turning even when he felt Sherlock come up behind him.

“Say it,” Sherlock said, his breath brushing along Mycroft’s neck.

“Haven’t you missed me?” Mycroft rushed and Sherlock laughed, resting his forehead on Mycroft’s shoulder.

 

John felt he might be invading on a personal moment but he couldn’t make himself move. There was something gentle in the way they spoke to one another. Something that spoke of a life John wasn’t a part of and he itched to know it. For over a year he’d seen them bicker and fight but this was a window into a world he didn’t know.

 

Sherlock pulled Mycroft to the couch and they sat down, Sherlock’s feet easily swinging into Mycroft’s lap.  John heard them sit and he inched closer.

“Maybe I have, but I had to be alone. I couldn’t have anyone I cared about, you or John, in the way while I hunted. If I miscalculated someone could end up dead. If it was me, you need never know and John could go on living as he had,” Sherlock said.

“Yes. What was that with John?” Mycroft asked easily. He didn’t want to talk about Sherlock dying and him not knowing.

“I was happy to see him,” Sherlock said on a sigh.

“So you kissed him?” Mycroft’s voice arched up in disbelief.

“You can’t pretend you didn’t know. In fact, the last time you saw me, we talked about this,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, but you also said it wouldn’t happen. I also don’t see you kissing Ms. Hooper and you are happy to see her, no matter how much you pretend not to be,” Mycroft replied.

“Molly is just a friend,” Sherlock dismissed.

“I remember a time when I was your only friend,” Mycroft pondered.

“I was younger then. Didn’t you always say I would do good with people around me?” Sherlock asked.

John leaned closer on the stairs being careful to avoid the ones that creaked. He wanted to hear the rest of the conversation.

“Yes, but you also always said I would be all you ever needed,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock laughed. It was a sound that John had believed to only be his. He didn’t know how he felt about Sherlock sharing it with his brother.

Sherlock lifted himself up so he could look at Mycroft.

“Are you jealous because I fell in love with someone else or because he’s close to me as a friend?” Sherlock asked.

“Both,” Mycroft admitted.

Sherlock fell back on the couch as John swallowed hard.

“Didn’t I tell you? It’s always you. I just wanted to see. I kissed him once, that’s all. No one can wipe out what you and I are and besides, he bought an engagement ring. Didn’t you see?”

John looked down in surprise. He should have known they would notice somehow but he’d grown so used to the normalcy of everyone else that it was a surprise.

 

“So if he came to you and chose you?” Mycroft asked.

John heard Sherlock sigh.

“Do you remember when I was 11 and we spent our first weekend in our old flat?” Sherlock asked.

John listened intently. He’d never heard Sherlock talk about his childhood.

 

“Yes,” Mycroft answered swiftly.

“I told you I expected you to take care of me in my old age and I still do. You should know by now Mycroft, I’m not one for childish whims. If I said it, I meant it,” Sherlock said quietly.

John heard Mycroft blow out a breath. “I love you,” John heard Mycroft said. It was about then that John realized he should go. That he was in far deeper than he meant to be and that the conversation he was listening to was not for his ears. He moved to the door only to hear Sherlock call,

“John, don’t bother. We knew you were there.”

John froze and color rushed to his cheeks. He didn’t turn even when he heard Sherlock on the top of the stairs.

“You can come up if you like,” Sherlock offered.

“I’d, uh, I’d rather stay here. Or go out. Either way,” John said dumbly.

Mycroft came up behind Sherlock and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist, placing his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder. John was shocked by the display and just stared. Sherlock turned his head slightly and smirked at Mycroft.

“Stop it. You’re making it worse,” he said.

“He was the one listening in,” Mycroft pointed out.

“Yes, but he regrets it now, so stop it,” Sherlock said on a light laugh but his fingers had intertwined with Mycroft’s and John looked away.

“Are you two…together?” John asked, his throat working.

“Yes,” Sherlock and Mycroft said together. Mycroft was relieved to hear Sherlock say it. He hadn’t been sure when Sherlock had stalked away from him the year before.

“How long?” John asked.

“A very long time,” Sherlock said softly, squeezing Mycroft’s hand to tell him not to speak.

“Since?” John prompted.

“Since I was 17,” Sherlock admitted. John stumbled back a bit.

“This whole time?” he asked, “This whole time you’ve been with him? And you didn’t tell me?”

“How could he?” Mycroft interrupted. Sherlock leaned his weight into Mycroft and Mycroft only squeezed him so he wheezed.

“How could he not?” John snapped back.

“It’s illegal, John. It’s also disgusting by most people’s standards,” Sherlock reasoned.

“I lived with you for 18 months! I loved you! The least you could have done was mention a relationship!” John bellowed. Sherlock stared at him with owlish eyes.

“I am 7 years his senior. I am also his brother. Whichever way you look at it, there is a taboo. Do not blame Sherlock when he showed good judgment,” Mycroft said coldly.

“No one knew,” Sherlock added. As if it would help.

John took a step back. “I can’t do this now. I really just want to hit you and I just can’t.”

Sherlock wiggled out of Mycroft’s arms and moved down the stairs. Mycroft watched him without moving.

“John,” Sherlock said softly, “I will always be your friend and I will always be here for you. But, go to Mary. Marry her. She will make you happy. I know I was what you needed when we met but do you think we could grow old together? I mean really grow old together, the way couples do. Someday you’d want children and to stop working and someday I would too, but it wouldn’t be at the same time. You might want everything I can give, but regrettably, I’ve already given it to Mycroft,” Mycroft huffed at that but didn’t interrupt, “and while I do care, John, you should be with Mary. She loves you, adores you even and when I wasn’t there, she helped you immeasurably. I cannot add up to such devotion and I don’t wish to try.”

John was surprised by the feeling in the words. Sherlock didn’t show emotion often but as he spoke John could see the pain and the earnest emotion dance across his face. He meant it. Maybe Sherlock did love John, but not as much as he loved his brother. And Sherlock was right. Mary had given everything she had to John and Sherlock was no longer the only thing he needed. He needed what Mary had given him, what she’d opened the door to. Sherlock simply wouldn’t be enough. He looked down at the floor as he asked,

“We’ll still work together?”

Sherlock laughed and Mycroft relaxed.

“Yes, of course. Life will be the same as before, we’ll just both me…more fulfilled,” Sherlock said with a happy smile. Mycroft took that as his cue to walk down the stairs. He wrapped his arms once more around Sherlock. Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes on a deep inhale and John saw the way they held on to one another. When Mycroft kissed his brother’s cheek John found himself dispelling all doubts that what they did was wrong. Anyone who could look so perfectly happy just being close to someone else deserved that happiness. He smiled, thinking of how happy Mary made him.

“I have to go find Mary!” he said with a sudden burst of energy. His day had become probably the most interesting day in his life; why not end it on a happy note.

Sherlock smiled his encouragement. “Go. And tell her I’m sorry for the fright, I didn’t mean to scare her,” he said.

John was already halfway out the door. “I will, yes, I will. And when I come back, don’t think you’re off the hook!” he called over his shoulder.

Sherlock shook his head in amusement and turned in Mycroft’s arms.

“And don’t think you’re off the hook, either,” he murmured as he traced Mycroft’s jaw with his finger.

“Oh I wouldn’t dream it, but it can wait,” Mycroft replied with a small smile.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, pulling Mycroft up the stairs, “yes it can.”

            The day carried on slow as sap and the laughter of the two Holmes brothers filled the flat. For once, they didn’t need to care who heard and they spent their day in Sherlock’s bed twined together. Sherlock explained his year and Mycroft spoke of his. Mycroft apologized by raining kisses on Sherlock’s face and promising to buy him his own bees. Sherlock whispered his love along Mycroft’s skin and Mycroft tickled him into squeals of laughter when he refused to get up to make tea. There was a calm happiness in them that hadn’t been there for years and for once, they were both content without need for anything else.

            When John called in his excitement to tell Sherlock Mary said yes, Mycroft formally wished him congratulations and promptly bought them an expensive honeymoon to which Mary was staggered and John only smirked. Sherlock smiled at the generosity and kissed Mycroft before curling his feet into Mycroft’s lap on the couch and turning on the telly. It was domestic and calm and Sherlock found he craved it more than anything. He looked at Mycroft in surprise.

            “It’s you,” he said quietly.

            “What’s me?” Mycroft asked without taking his eyes from the screen.

            “You’re what had been missing,” Sherlock said.

            “Are you being obtuse on purpose?” Mycroft asked, amused.

            “All the time I lived with John I felt there was something missing but I couldn’t place it. It was you. I was so used to living with you that when he stuck around I felt I needed it to be more. I did love him, but it isn’t like this,” Sherlock said, in wonder at his own revelation.

            Mycroft absently ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and smiled. “So you missed me,” Mycroft translated.

            “In more words,” Sherlock smiled, tipping his head into Mycroft’s hand.

            Mycroft smiled in return. “Always in more words with you, isn’t it?”

            “You know what isn’t?” Sherlock asked.

            “What?” Mycroft looked down at Sherlock who planted a light kiss on his lips.

            “I love you,” he said.

            Mycroft beamed. “You’re right, that’s always just the right amount of words.”

            Sherlock gave a contented sigh and curled into Mycroft. Sometimes, one person really was enough.

           


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we've come to the end! It's angsty but I like it. I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please leave comments, good or bad, I love to hear from those who read my stories!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

Years went by and somehow, life ended up staying wonderful for all four involved. At John’s wedding Sherlock was best man and the wedding photos that decorated John and Mary’s home showed Mary kissing Sherlock’s cheek as well as one photo hidden behind the others of Mycroft with his arm around Sherlock’s waist, his mouth close to Sherlock’s ear with a slight smile on his face as if whispering something. Sherlock was beaming, his eyes partly trained on the camera and partly watching Mycroft.

            Mary and John supported them. The night John proposed to Mary he’d told her the truth of them in his own surprised shock. She’d set her jaw, stared at the wall and then proclaimed, “Love comes in all forms and they aren’t hurting anyone.”

            He’d never loved her more than he had in that moment. They were married and true to Sherlock’s promise, life didn’t change much. John spent most of his work days and nights with Sherlock. Sometimes Mary followed them on cases and Sherlock grew to grudgingly enjoy her company. On the weekends they all went to Mycroft’s home and ate dinner together where Sherlock forced them all play Cluedo (only Mycroft could beat him by blatantly bending the rules) until it was late and John would drag Mary to the guest rooms to make love or to sleep curled around one another.

            The years carried them all forward and somewhere in the ease of their lives they got older and John realized, 10 years from the day he learned of Sherlock’s relationship with Mycroft, that he’d stopped thinking of Mycroft as Sherlock’s brother. To him, Mycroft had become Sherlock’s other half. The love of his life that he’d been lucky enough to find when he was 17 years old. It was an odd revelation to have but he simply continued on in his day undisturbed. On a visit to the summer home Mycroft had purchased 5 years before, Mary leaned on the balcony and smiled.

            “You know, I though once that Sherlock was your soul mate and I was just taking his place. I see now that you two are soul mates in the way that best friends are. You belong together but not in the way we’re together. You would drive each other crazy in that capacity. All you two need is to grow old together and you’re getting to do that. I was afraid when we were getting married that I would come second to him but neither of you ever made me feel that way. We’re equal, aren’t we?” she asked with a lazy grin.

            He stretched beside her. “I wouldn’t say soul mate. We’re just good friends but we would drive each other crazy in that way, wouldn’t we? I don’t know how Mycroft puts up with him,” he laughed.

            “Oh, I do,” Mary said softly. She snaked her arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. He squeezed her gently and kissed the top of her head.

            “We’ll all grow old together,” he said.

            “Yes, we will,” she smiled.

 

            “I cannot believe I’m in my 40’s and you still think tickling me will help you get your way,” Sherlock said to Mycroft as he changed into his pajamas.

            “It works,” Mycroft said smugly.

            “No, it doesn’t I just let you think it does. I would’ve given you the dessert anyway,” Sherlock smiled.

            Mycroft leaned over him with a smile. “I know, but I like to see you laugh.”

            Sherlock smiled and pulled Mycroft down for a kiss, his mouth moving lazily until he let his head drop back on the bed. Years of being together gave them the connection of people who knew each other intimately and could enjoy a simple kiss without rushing.

            “You know, all those years ago, I really never thought we’d end up here. I never saw myself living this long if I’m honest,” Sherlock admitted.

            Mycroft sat next to him. “I never thought we’d get here either. Though I did know you’d live this long because I wouldn’t allow anything less,” he replied.

            Sherlock turned onto his side and smiled sleepily. “I think I’m going to be done working soon. Maybe I’ll get some bees. Move to Sussex. Make honey and do experiments into my old age. That sounds good, right? John can open a small practice and help me with my experiments. You can relax for once in your life and when you get too bored for it, we can go on adventures like we used to. Of course, Mary can teach and maybe read at the town library. We can tell people we’re married,” Sherlock yawned and Mycroft looked at him, startled. “Same last name but we’ve never looked alike. I’ve always wanted to know what that’s like.”

            Sherlock’s words tapered off as he fell into sleep and Mycroft looked at him, surprised by his brother for the first time in a long time. He didn’t know Sherlock dreamed of a domestic life in that way. They were getting older but he’d always assumed Sherlock would fight tooth and nail to work until his body ran down. Sherlock admitting that he wanted to move to the country and own bees while being with Mycroft in a way they hadn’t been allowed to be for most of their lives was something new. Mycroft turned off the light and slid down into the bed, his mind racing with the possibilities.

           

            In the end it took 3 more years for Mycroft to organize everything so it would be perfect for Sherlock. When the plans were ready, he called John and Mary to his office. The couple was older and John needed his cane to hobble around since he’d broken his ankle chasing after Sherlock while Sherlock chased a criminal. Age lines creased their faces and John’s hideous jumpers finally seemed acceptable with his age. Mary had gone soft, her once young body heavier and paler but she smiled with real pleasure at seeing Mycroft which was something Mycroft coveted since very few people smiled with that level of warmth upon seeing him.

            “My,” she greeted as she folded herself down into the chair in front of Mycroft’s desk.

            “Mary. It is lovely to see you, as always,” Mycroft said with a genuine smile.

            “John,” he greeted. John nodded.

            “Right. So I asked you to come in to speak with you about an important matter,” he paused. “How ready are you to retire?” he asked.

            John blinked at him in surprise and Mary answered, “I’ve been thinking about it, but I’m not sure we have the money, to be frank.”

            Mycroft smiled. “So you wouldn’t be opposed to it happening soon?”

            “No,” John said, “we’re ready in all honesty. I’ve been running after Sherlock for quite some time now and I think my body is finally getting the better of me.”

            “Yes, I would rather neither of you get killed at work,” Mycroft said.

            “Me too,” Mary laughed, “I’ve grown quite attached to this one.” She held John’s hand and squeezed. Mycroft smiled.

            John and Mary had the same temperaments and made a lovely couple. After his initial doubt about the four of them being friends because of Sherlock’s attraction to John, he’d realized no one was better suited for John than Mary and that he didn’t need to be threatened by Sherlock’s closeness to the other man.

            “As have I, rather unexpectedly I might add,” Mycroft said and John gave him a real smile.

            “So what’s on your mind?” Mary asked, leaning forward.

            “Sherlock and I have been discussing our retirement and I’m happy to say we’re ready. He’s proclaimed that he wishes us to live the life we’ve never been able to have and I have managed to make it possible. He and I can live together as a couple in Sussex. I’ve bought us a house and managed to secure some bee colonies for Sherlock. He will have his own room for experiments and I will be able to settle and relax,” Mycroft smiled.

            Mary and John looked at one another in surprise. “It was Sherlock’s idea?” John asked.

            “Yes. Sherl wants the things we never had and you must have noticed his body is starting to wear down. He’s wearing thin and I can do this for him to make him happy, it will make me happy. I have quite enough money saved up from when Mummy died and his trust hasn’t been touched since we’d agreed I’d hold it back when he was 18. We have a substantial amount. Too much for either of us to spend in our lifetime even if I did let Sherlock buy all of the atrociously expensive pieces of lab equipment he wanted.”

            “Where is this leading?” John asked as he reclined in his chair.

            “To put it bluntly, I’ve bought a house for you as well. If you are amiable on the idea of retirement, I would be happy to extend not only the house but our bank accounts to you for the rest of our lives,” Mycroft said.

            Mary sat back in shock. “It’s too much,” she said numbly.

            “No,” Mycroft countered, “it is nearly too little. For all you have done for both of us and for all John has done for Sherlock in the past and me by association this is the least I could do.”

            “You paid for our honeymoon,” Mary protested.

            “I have to agree, Mycroft. It’s too much,” John said.

            “Nonsense. Do you want to retire?” he asked.

            “Yes,” Mary said slowly.

            “Would you like to spend the rest of your lives near us?” Mycroft queried.

            Mary looked at John who nodded. “Yes,” she said.

            “Then this is the way to do it. It is a modest house as is ours, but it will give us all what we want,” Mycroft said.

            “And what’s that?” John asked.

            Mycroft stared at him with ice blue eyes. “For me, it gives me the rest of my life with my man I love, for Sherlock it gives him everyone he cares about in one place, for Mary it is time to relax and do everything at a leisurely place without worry and for you, John, it gives you the two people you love most in the world growing old beside you.”

            John looked at his lap, unnerved by Mycroft’s accuracy.

            “John,” Mary pulled on his fingers and John looked at her. “John, we could do it. We don’t have children and neither do they. It’s…well it’s what we’ve talked about, isn’t it? You want to grow old with Sherlock. You both talk about it often enough. Just think about it. You could spend nights and days sitting by the fire talking about the good old days. We wouldn’t need to worry. At night you’d come home to me. And you and me, we’d have everything we wanted. I could read at the library. You know I’ve always wanted to do that. We could raise ducks or chickens or have a fish pond. It’s endless.”

            His beautiful Mary who knew him so well. She was giving him perfection and he could hardly believe it. He smiled.

            “It was a lucky day when I met Sherlock,” he said. Mycroft looked surprised for a moment but Mary smiled warmly in return.

            “Oh yes,” she said, “it surely was.”

 

            And so it became Sherlock’s birthday present. They tied his scarf over his eyes and put fuzzy earmuffs on his head to keep him from being able to deduce where they were. Mycroft drove. They reached Sussex and the woman who handed over the house keys told Mycroft that he had a lovely family. Mycroft remembered the old woman on the streets in London telling him the same thing years before and he smiled widely.

            “Yes, I do,” he said.

            He’d bought rings for the first time in his life and when he pulled Sherlock into the house he stationed himself in front of the man and let John pull the cover off his eyes and then the earmuffs from his head. Sherlock blinked in the sudden light.

            “Where are we?” he demanded.

            “Our future,” Mycroft replied. He pulled out the ring box.

            Sherlock’s eyes focused on Mycroft and his lips pulled up in a slight smile. “And where is that?”

            Mycroft ignored the question. “Remember when we were young and you made me promise to never leave you?” he asked.

            “Yes,” Sherlock said, his smile getting wider.

            “Well I took it to heart. And the day I realized I loved you as so much more than I was supposed to, it scared me. Then that horrible woman told me those things about you and I realized it didn’t matter. Maybe what we are is wrong and maybe when we close our eyes, we’ll see fiery gates, but I don’t care. I love you, Sherl. I always have and I always will. A few years back you told me your dreams for the future and I knew I had to make them all come true. Because you deserve all of your dreams coming true. So here we are,” Mycroft said formally, his smile nearly blinding Sherlock.

            Mary blinked back tears as Sherlock laughed and looked around. “We’re in Sussex. You got me Sussex!”

            “Well, I didn’t get you all of Sussex, but yes,” Mycroft said with a laugh.

            “No, you got me all I needed,” Sherlock said.

            Even John saw the flush crawl up Mycroft’s neck and he smiled as well.

            “Now here is the best part,” Mycroft said, reaching into his coat, “you told me you wanted to know what it was like to be married.”

            Sherlock stared. “That was a dream, Mycroft. I didn’t think it could actually happen,” he said.  

            “I made it happen,” Mycroft said. He produced the ring box and handed it to Sherlock who popped it open. It was a simple gold wedding band and he smiled through tears. Mycroft was already wearing a matching one.

            “What about John and Mary?” he asked once he’d slipped the ring on his finger.

            “I bought them the house down the street,” Mycroft said.

            Sherlock looked at him with disbelief before jumping forward. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck and Mycroft laughed as he hugged Sherlock close.

            “You, Mycroft Holmes, are amazing,” he said quietly into Mycroft’s ear.

            “I think so too,” he said and Sherlock squeezed his waist tightly.

            “You could be more humble,” he said.

            “Like you?” John interjected and Mary laughed.

            “John, I think we should go to our own house. Settle in. Let these two settle in as well,” she smiled.

            “Right,” John said as Sherlock yanked Mycroft back to the couch, seeming to have forgotten John and Mary were there. He closed the door as his best friend leaned in to kiss his brother and though something in him wanted to say it was wrong, when Mycroft smiled and pulled Sherlock tightly to him he could find nothing in him but adoration for the two together.

 

            Retirement suited them all. As the years crawled on they spent happy days working with the bees, taking walks and having the odd adventure when it suited them. They got older, their bodies got slower and the days got shorter but it didn’t matter. Sherlock woke with a smile and fell asleep with one well into his 60’s. When Mycroft found out about his cancer they weren’t surprised and when Sherlock found out about his as well, Mary and John moved in with them to help them get by. They didn’t have long and though it saddened the couple to watch their friends fall into disarray, they stood by their sides and talked of the good old days, Sherlock and John laughing until they cried and on the worst days; Mary told them all of her childhood in the country. In the last week, Sherlock and Mycroft told their life story and John copied it down, understanding more about the two men which each new sentence.

            The night they passed, they went together. Sherlock turned his head and looked at Mycroft with a soft smile.

            “You’ve gotten fat,” he said.

            “And you’ve gotten thin,” Mycroft replied.

            “Hazard of dying, I’m afraid,” Sherlock said.

            Mycroft sighed.

            “My?” Sherlock said hesitantly.

            Mycroft turned to him. It was painful but worth it to see his face. He waited.

            “Thank you. Thank you for all of this. For my life. For not shoving me away from you when I first told you I loved you and for loving me unconditionally ever since,” Sherlock said with tears in his eyes.

            Mycroft lifted a shaking and wrinkled hand to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock pressed his paper thin skin into Mycroft’s hand, closing his eyes.

            “I should thank you, love. Thank you for the stars. Thank you for the forgiveness and the happiness we had,” Mycroft said softly.  

            “I don’t want to go without you,” Sherlock trembled.

            “You won’t love, you won’t. You asked me what heaven was. A very long time ago,” Mycroft leaned on Sherlock, “I think I know the answer now.”

            Sherlock smiled, “Me too.”

            Mycroft intertwined their fingers. “Always together, love. I won’t leave without you.”

            Sherlock smiled and closed his eyes. “Good. Just stay right here, My. Right by my side.”

            “Always,” Mycroft whispered back. Already his heart was struggling. “Always.”

 

            Mary found them in the morning when she carried in the tea tray. She put the tray down with heavy hands and sighed. They were twined together, arms and legs, both with smiles on their faces. She began to cry but there was a small smile on her face. They’d gone together just like they’d said they always would. Turning away, she called for John. They would mourn their friends together in the comfort of the homes they’d been given.

 

            It wasn’t until the next day that John found the paperwork Mycroft had left for them. His hands shook when he read it.

            “Mary!” he called, “Mary, come read this!”

            She bustled into the kitchen from the living room where she’d been organizing Sherlock’s things. She took the paper with a smile that fell as soon as she read it.

            “This can’t be right,” she said.

            “It is. Mycroft showed me before, it’s right. I just didn’t think… They…they left us everything,” John said with shock.

            “Did you see this?” Mary asked, holding out a small post it.

            John took it. On it was a small handwritten note in Mycroft’s swift script.

            “Thank you for everything. We are forever grateful for all you have done and only hope that our gratitude is conveyed with this gift. Use it in good health. As always, love from us both.”

            His eyes welled with tears as he put the note down.

            “So stubborn,” he said with a laugh.

            “They were, weren’t they?” Mary laughed.

            “They certainly were,” John said with a smile. He rose and joined Mary in the living room where they laughed and cried over the memories in Sherlock and Mycroft’s belongings. It was the best of times and the worst of times and none of them would have changed it for the world.


End file.
